The Chamber of Secrets: The Second Slytherin Tale
by RhamielAngel
Summary: Life as a Slytherin is especially difficult for Harry this year. With everyone accusing him of being the heir of Slytherin, his two best friends abandoning him to save their own skin, and a pompous new teacher, how will Harry survive his second year?
1. Dobby's Warning

**Authors Note: **(Skip if impatient, we'll still be here :)

Rhami and Sensei here with the second installment of the Slytherin Tales. For all those who are knew to the Slytherin Tales, welcome and don't worry, it's not necessary for you to have read the frst tale to know what's happening in the second tale. However, if you would like to read the first one, by all means, go ahead. For all of those who did read the first tale and have stuck with us for this long, God bless your ever-loving souls. ;) We hope that this sequel will be more pleasing to you than the first fic.

Again, we own nothing Harry Potter related etc.

Again, there are OCs but this story is not about them.

And lastly, please review and tell us how we've done with the sequel!

With that said, please enjoy The Chamber of Secrets: The Second Slytherin Tale.

* * *

Harry crossed into his bedroom on tiptoe, slipped inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse on his bed.

The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.

Harry managed not to shout out, but it was a close thing. The little creature on the bed had large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls.

As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley's voice from the hall.

"May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"

The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet. Harry noticed that it was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arms- and leg-holes.

"Er – hello," said Harry nervously.

"Harry Potter!" said the creature in a high-pitched voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs and disrupt the Dursley's dinner party. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir . . . Such an honor it is . . ."

"Th-thank you," said Harry, edging along the wall and sinking into his desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was asleep in her large cage.

"Sorry," said Harry, apologizing in advance for the question, "but what are you?"

"Dobby is a house-elf sir," said the creature.

"Oh – really? Dobby. . ." said Harry. "Er – I don't want to be rude or anything, but – this isn't a great time for me to have a house-elf in my bedroom."

Aunt Petunia's high, false laugh sounded from the living room. The elf hung his head.

"Not that I'm not pleased to meet you," said Harry quickly, "but, er, is there any particular reason you're here?"

"Oh, yes, sir," said Dobby earnestly. "Dobby has come to tell you, sir . . . it is difficult, sir . . . Dobby wonders where to begin . . ."

"Sit down," said Harry politely, pointing at the bed.

To his horror, the elf burst into tears – very noisy tears.

"S-sit _down!_" he wailed. "_Never_ . . . _never ever _. . ."

Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I didn't mean to offend you or anything –"

"Offend Dobby!" choked the elf. "Dobby has _never _been asked to sit down by a wizard – like an _equal _–"

Harry, trying to say "Shh!" and look comforting at the same time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly doll. At last he managed to control himself, and sat with his great eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of watery adoration.

"You can't have met many decent wizards," said Harry, trying to cheer him up.

Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he leapt up and started banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, "_Bad _Dobby! _Bad _Dobby!"

"Don't – what are you doing?" Harry hissed, springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed – Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud screech and was beating her wings wildly against the bars of her cage.

"Dobby had to punish himself, sir," said the elf, who had gone slightly cross-eyed. "Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir. . ."

"Your family?"

"The wizard family Dobby serves, sir . . . Dobby is a house-elf – bound to serve one house and one family forever . . ."

"Do they know you're here?" asked Harry curiously.

"Oh yes, sir. Dobby's master sent Dobby to Harry Potter. . ."

Dobby shuddered.

"Who is your master, Dobby?"

"Dobby can't say!" The elf attempted again to run at the window, but Harry caught him by the ankle and sat him back down on the bed. "Dobby is a bad elf. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for having bad thoughts about his family."

"But won't they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?"

"Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments. . ."

"But why don't you leave? Escape?"

"A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free. . . Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir . . ."

Harry stared.

"And I thought I had it bad staying here for another four weeks," he said. "This makes the Dursleys sound almost human. Can't anyone help you? Can't I?"

Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn't spoken. Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude.

"Please," Harry whispered frantically, "please be quiet. If the Durselys hear anything , if they know you're here –"

"Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby . . . Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew. . ."

Harry, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face, said, "Never mind any of that. I've got a lot of improving to do before I'm that great. I'm not as clever as Malvora, she –"

But he stopped quickly, because thinking about his friend, who hadn't owled him all summer, was painful.

"Harry Potter is humble and modest," said Dobby reverently, his orb-like eyes aglow. "Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named –"

"Voldemort?" said Harry.

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and moaned, "Ah, speak not the name, sir! Speak not the name!"

"Sorry," said Harry quickly. "I know lots of people don't like it. My friend Draco –"

He stopped again. Thinking about Draco was painful, too.

Dobby leaned toward Harry, his eyes wide as headlights.

"Dobby heard tell," he said hoarsely, "that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago . . . that Harry Potter escaped _yet again."_

Harry nodded and Dobby's eyes suddenly shone with tears.

"Ah, sir," he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. "Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to tell Harry Potter something he will not like to hear. . . Dobby's master says, and Dobby agrees . . . _Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts._"

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon's voice.

"W-what?" Harry stammered. "But I've got to go back – term starts on September first. It's all that's keeping me going. You don't know what it's like here. I don't _belong _here. I belong in your world – at Hogwarts."

"No, no, no," squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped. "Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger."

"Why?" said Harry in surprise.

"There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year," whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. "Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!"

"What terrible things?" said Harry at once. "Who's plotting them?"

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall.

"All right!" cried Harry, grabbing the elf's arm to stop him. "You can't tell me. I understand. But why did your master send you? To warn me?" A sudden, unpleasant thought struck him. "Hang on – this hasn't got anything to do with Vol – sorry – with You-Know-Who, has it? You could just shake or nod," he added hastily as Dobby's head tilted worrying close to the wall again.

Slowly, Dobby shook his head.

"No – not _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, _sir –"

But Dobby's eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Harry a hint. Harry, however, was completely lost.

"He hasn't got a brother, has he?"

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.

"Well then, I can't think who else would have a chance of making horrible things happen at Hogwarts," said Harry. "I mean, there's Dumbledore, for one thing – you know who Dumbledore is, don't you?"

Dobby bowed his head.

"Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby has heard Dumbledore's powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But sir –" Dobby's voice dropped to an urgent whisper – "there are powers Dumbledore doesn't. . . powers no decent wizard. . ."

And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized Harry's desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with earsplitting yelps.

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall, calling, "Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!"

"Quick! In the closet!" hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the door, and flinging himself onto the bed just as the door handle turned.

"What – the – _devil _– are – you – doing?" said Uncle Vernon through gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Harry's. "You've just ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke . . . One more sound and you'll wish you'd never been born, boy!"

He stomped flat-footed from the room.

Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet.

"See what it's like here?" he said. "See why I've got to go back to Hogwarts? It's the only place I've got – well, I _think _I've got friends."

"Friends who don't even _write _to Harry Potter?" said Dobby slyly.

"I expect they've just been – wait a minute," said Harry, frowning. "How do _you _know my friends haven't been writing to me?"

Dobby shuffled his feet.

"Harry Potter mustn't be angry with Dobby. Dobby was told to do it. It's for Harry Potter's own good –"

"_Have you been stopping my letters?_"

"Dobby has them here, sir," said the elf. Stepping nimbly out of Harry's reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. Harry could make out Malvora's dramatic scrawl, Draco's neat writing, and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid.

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.

"Harry Potter mustn't be angry. . . Dobby hoped. . . if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him . . . Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir . . ."

Harry wasn't listening. He made a grab for the letters, but Dobby jumped out of reach.

"Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! And Dobby's master will punish Dobby if you go back! Say you won't go back, sir!"

"Fine, I won't go back," Harry lied angrily, "just give me my letters!"

Dobby's ears drooped a little and he stepped farther away from Harry.

"Harry Potter lies to Dobby," he said sadly. "He gives Dobby no choice."

Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs.

Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him, trying not to make a sound. He jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking around for Dobby. From the dining room he heard Uncle Vernon saying, ". . . tell Petunia that very funny story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. She's been dying to hear . . ."

Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his stomach disappear.

Aunt Petunia's masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby.

"No," croaked Harry. "Please . . . they'll kill me. . ."

"Harry Potter must mean it when he says he won't go back to school –"

"Dobby . . . please . . ."

"Mean it, sir –"

"No, I can't –"

Dobby gave him a tragic look.

"Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter's own good and for his masters."

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished.

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with shock , covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia's pudding.

At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would manage to gloss the whole thing over. ("Just our nephew – very disturbed – meeting strangers upsets him, so we keep him upstairs. . .") He shooed the shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised Harry he would flay him to within an inch of his life when the Mason's had left, and handed him a mop. Aunt Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer and Harry, still shaking, started scrubbing the kitchen clean.

Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his deal – if it hadn't been for the owl.

Aunt Petunia was just passing around a box of after-dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through the dining room window, dropped a letter on Mrs. Mason's head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason screamed like a banshee and ran from the house shouting about lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed just long enough to tell the Dursleys that his wife was mortally afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask whether this was their idea of a joke.

Harry stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for support, as Uncle Vernon advanced on him, a demonic glint in his tiny eyes.

"Read it!" he hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the owl had delivered. "Go on – read it!"

_Dear Mr. Potter_

_We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine._  
_As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C)._  
_We would ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by member of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlock's Statute of Secrecy._  
_Enjoy your holidays!_  
_Yours sincerely,_

_Mafalda Hopkirk_

_Mafalda Hopkirk_  
_Improper Use of Magic Office_  
_Ministry of Magic_

Harry looked up from the letter and gulped.

"You didn't tell us you weren't allowed to use magic outside of school," said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. "Forgot to mention it . . . Slipped your mind, I daresay. . ."

He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. "Well, I've got news for you, boy. . . I'm locking you up . . . You're never going back to that school . . . never . . . and if you try and magic yourself out – they'll expel you!"

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Harry back upstairs.

Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Harry's window. He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day. They let Harry out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he was locked in his room around the clock.

Three days later, the Dursleys were showing no sign of relenting, and Harry couldn't see any way out of his situation. He lay on his bed watching the sun sinking behind the bars of the window and wondered miserably what was going to happen to him.

What was the good of magicking himself out of his room if Hogwarts would expel him for doing it? Yet life at Privet Drive had reached an all-time low. Now that the Dursleys knew they weren't going to wake up as fruit bats, he had lost his only weapon. Dobby might have saved Harry from horrible happenings at Hogwarts, but the way things were going, he'd probably starve to death anyway.

The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunia's hand appeared, pushing a bowl of canned soup into the room. Harry, whose insides were aching with hunger, jumped off his bed and seized it. The soup was stone-cold, but he drank half of it in one gulp. Then he crossed the room to Hedwig's cage and tipped the soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into her empty food tray. She ruffled her feathers and gave him a look of deep disgust.

"It's no good turning your beak up at it – that's all we've got," said Harry grimly.

He put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat-flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even hungrier than he had been before the soup.

Supposing he was still alive in another four weeks, what would happen if he didn't turn up at Hogwarts? Would someone be sent to see why he hadn't come back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let him go?

The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach rumbling, mind spinning over the same unanswerable questions, Harry fell into an uneasy sleep.

He dreamed that he was on show in a zoo, with a card reading UNDERAGE WIZARD attached to his cage. People goggled through the bars at him as he lay, starving and weak, on a bed of straw. He saw Dobby's face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help, but Dobby called, "Harry Potter is safe there, sir!" and vanished. Then the Dursleys appeared and Dudley rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at him.

"Stop it," Harry muttered as the rattling pounded in his sore head. "Leave me alone . . . cut it out . . . I'm trying to sleep. . ."

He opened his eyes. Moonlight was shining through the bars on the window. And something kept hitting against the bars. Someone was throwing rocks at his window.

He got up and opened the window so he could see down.

Malvora Melbarke was waving to him on the lawn.


	2. The Lonely Manor

Chapter 2: The Lonely Manor

"Harry!" yelled Mal, grinning from ear to ear.

"Shh!" said Harry. "How did you –"

"What? Speak louder!"

"_Be quiet! _You'll wake up the Durs-"

"Huh?" she waved him off. "Hold on, I'm coming up!"

Before Harry could say no, Malvora was climbing up the wire trellis toward his window. Harry watched her, anxiously, sure that the trellis would break or fall and she would wake the Dursleys, who would automatically assume she was a burglar.

At last she reached his window.

"Harry, I've come to bust you out!" she said, excitedly. "I knew there was a reason you weren't answering my letters. . . You've been locked up like an owl!"

"Listen, Mal, will you tell them at Hogwarts that the Dursleys have locked me up and won't let me come back –"

"Shut up!" Mal snapped. "You're ruining my rescue!"

Harry could only gape as she pulled a nail-file out of her pocket, while precariously hanging with one hand onto the trellis.

"You can't expect to cut through the bars with _that_?"

"It's enchanted," Malvora explained. She set it against the bars and it sliced through them like paper. "Harmless to everything except metal."

The bars fell with a loud thud into the bushes. Harry tensed, waiting to hear the Dursleys wake up, but the only sound was a dog barking in the distance. Malvora climbed catlike through the window and into Harry's room.

"Where's all your stuff?" she asked, judging with disgust his small living quarters.

"Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can't get out of this room –"

"I'll get them, then," she said, heading for the door. "Just grab anything you need from here and throw it out the window."

She knelt before the door, took out an ordinary hairpin and started to pick the lock. There was a small click and the door swung open.

"Watch for the bottom stair – it creaks," Harry whispered as the witch disappeared onto the dark landing.

Harry dashed around his room, collecting his things and tossing them out the window where they landed muffled into the bushes. Then he went to help Malvora heave his trunk up the stairs. Harry heard Uncle Vernon cough.

At last, panting, they reached the landing, then carried the trunk through Harry's room to the open window. They heaved the trunk up on the windowsill, as quietly as possible.

Uncle Vernon coughed again.

"Almost – there –" panted Mal. One last push and –

The trunk fell and landed with a horrible crash onto the bars from the window.

Harry froze as he heard Petunia's shocked yelp and Uncle Vernon say, "What was that?"

"Come on!" Mal urged, climbing out the window.

"What about Hedwig?"

Hedwig was screeching in her cage, drawing Uncle Vernon's thundering steps toward Harry's door.

"Let her out of the cage! She can fly!"

Harry dived for Hedwig's cage and scrambled to open it while Uncle Vernon's footsteps came closer and closer. At last, he freed her and she shot past him and out the window, just as the door crashed open.

For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Harry, who was climbing onto the trellis from the window. He grabbed Harry's wrist and wouldn't let go.

"Harry!" yelled Mal. She ran to the wire trellis and pulled out her file, slicing the bottom with ease so that the weight of it began to tilt it away from the house. Uncle Vernon could hold on no longer, and Harry's wrist slipped out of his hand just as the trellis began to crash to the ground.

"JUMP!" cried Malvora, and he did, flying backwards into the hedge.

"Petunia!" roared Uncle Vernon. "He's getting away! HE'S GETTING AWAY!" Uncle Vernon turned from the window and Harry had no doubt that he was shuffling down the stairs as fast as he could to get to them.

"My stuff!" called Harry.

"Runt, Stubby, Flick!" said Malvora, and three little house-elves popped up suddenly. "Take us to the manor! And Harry's stuff too!"

Before Harry could guess as to what was going on, Malvora had dragged him to his feet and a house-elf was holding onto Harry's hand. There was a loud cracking noise and Harry suddenly felt as if he was flying and being squeezed through a tube. The pressure was too much – he thought his head would burst – and then, suddenly, it stopped and there was silence.

He was standing on a path he'd never seen before, with Malvora and the house-elf still holding on to him. The other two house-elves appeared with cracks, holding Harry's things.

He wasn't sure how, but somehow Harry was _free. _Free from the Dursleys at last.

"That was . . ." started Mal, her eyes wide, "the greatest adventure I've ever had!"

"Mal, what happened?" asked Harry, as he began to take in his surroundings.

"Well, we aparated of course!" she said. "We were transported from your Muggle cage to my manor. That's how adult wizards get around."

"But won't you get in trouble for using magic outside of school?"

"No, the house-elves used the magic, not me. I don't know how to aparate."

Harry was amazed and slightly out-of-sorts. His mind was still swimming from the strange sensation and the sudden change of scenery.

They were on a cobblestone path in the middle of a heavily overgrown forest garden, which leaded, in one direction, to a heavy black gate, and in the other, to a building that very much resembled a castle.

"Home, sweet home," said Malvora before she directed the elves to take Harry's things inside.

"You live here?" asked Harry as they walked toward her house. He couldn't help but notice some odd sounds coming from the trees, and more than once he thought he saw a set of eyes gleam back at him.

"Yes," said Malvora, "and don't worry, my parents left a few days ago on business. That's why I thought it was a good time to save you. Draco and I have been really worried."

"Draco was worried, too?"

"Of course he was! After he invited you to his fantastic party and you didn't show up! He was worried you thought you were too good to give him the time of day."

Harry couldn't help but snigger at this as they walked in the front door of Malvora's home. Malvora's black and white cat, Camo, greeted them at the door, purring and rubbing against Harry's leg. Harry looked around in wonder. He had never been in a wizard house before.

From the outside, the home had seemed rather dark and frightening, but on the inside it was entirely different. It seemed that every inch of stone or wood was covered in an animal fur of some sort. Leopard spots, zebra stripes, and furs probably from magical creatures as well, in every different color and texture imaginable. The mixture of colors and patterns was too much to take in, and Harry hardly noticed how bare the rest of the home was. To the left of this entry hall was a study, which had only two sofas, bookshelves and a fireplace. To the right was the kitchen, which, other than the ornate table, was entirely empty. Ahead was a spiral staircase leading to the second floor, but beyond that, there were no other furnishings, accessories, or even paintings in the house.

"Hungry?" Mal suddenly asked.

Harry nodded, remembering his pitiful soup can.

"Runt, Stubby, Flick," called Malvora again. The three elves stumbled down the stairs and lined up in front of her.

"Yes, young master?"

"Your wish is our command."

"Yeah, yeah!"

Malvora knelt to pat each of them on the head and give her instructions.

"Runt, I want you to go pick two Aphroditimus fruits from the tree and bring them to the kitchen. Flick, you're going to get two goose eggs from the coop. And Stubby," she checked her watch, "Mr. Douglas is probably getting ready for work right now. Go down the street to his house and see if you can snatch some ham and milk."

Harry stared in disbelief as the elves nodded and disappeared.

"You make them steal for you?" he asked.

"Not always," said Malvora, looking somewhat offended. "What else can I do? In case you hadn't noticed, there's no food in the kitchen and I can't use magic."

Harry looked around at the house and said, "But you have money, don't you?"

"No," she snapped, "my _father _has money and I don't have access to it. If I walked into Gringotts and asked to go to the vault, the goblins would laugh at me."

Harry was quiet for a moment. He didn't know which was worse: his life with the Dursleys or Malvora's life _without_ her own parents. He suddenly felt a peculiar sort of kinship for her, as if they had something in common. He didn't want to press the subject any farther, however, and tried to think of something else to talk about.

A sudden thought occurred to him.

"Malvora, do you have another house-elf named Dobby?"

She shook her head as she walked into the kitchen and Harry began to tell her what had happened with Dobby and the letters.

"Well," she said afterwards, "usually only rich, Pure-blood families have house-elves."

"But who would send him to warn me not to go to Hogwarts?" said Harry.

"What does it matter? You're going, aren't you?" She shrugged.

Harry couldn't argue with that.

The elves arrived shortly with their food. Flick, the girl elf, made tea from the golden Aphroditimus fruits, which were very sweet in flavor, while Stubby and Runt cooked up the eggs and ham they'd gathered in the only frying pan in the whole house. Harry and Malvora had to share straight off the pan, because there were also no plates.

After they were done eating, Malvora showed Harry her room upstairs. They were greeted by two more house-cats at the top of the spiral staircase, then walked down a corridor at the left to a door that had MALVORA THE MALICIOUS carved into it and painted red.

Harry stepped in and blinked. Where the rest of the house had been colorful and confusing, Malvora's room was almost entirely black. There was a massive canopy bed with black curtains and black fur sheets that seemed to sparkle, and black drapes that blocked any morning light from coming in through the window. Harry wouldn't have been able to see at all if it weren't for the glowing little orbs of green light that flickered and floated lazily along her ceiling. They reminded Harry greatly of fireflies, and he was shocked to see a bat swoop through the clustered orb, snatching one and sending the others scattering in all directions. Then Harry realized that Mal had covered nearly every inch of her walls with pictures of dragons and other magical beasts. Some were ripped from books, and others she had obviously sketched herself. There was one particularly large poster of a creature that might have been mistaken for a bird, if not for its scaly snout and four sets of vicious claws.

"An Athenan dragon?" said Harry.

"You guessed it," said Malvora proudly.

Malvora's school spellbooks had been tossed untidily onto an end-table, next to a bookcase full of books on magical creatures. Her wand was on a platform of the most elaborate cat-house Harry had ever seen, where Camo was raking his claws up the side and purring loudly.

Harry crossed to the window and opened the drapes just enough to look down at the jungle-like yard below. It seemed to stretch on for miles, which was likely due to an enchantment, and he saw what looked like a very large cat lurking in the trees. Then he turned to look at Mal, who was watching him carefully, as though waiting for his opinion.

"There's not a lot here," she said quickly, "because my parents travel so much. And it's not nearly as bright or tidy as your Muggle house and cat hair gets on everything . . ."

But Harry, smiling contentedly at Mal, said, "This is the best house I've ever been in."

Mal's cheeks colored.


	3. At Flourish and Blotts

**Authors Note: **Thanks to all who are reviewing! :D Keep it up! Criticisms as well as praise are invited at all times!

*From this chapter on, there will now be 60% more Malfoy.* Woot.

* * *

Life at Malvora's manor was certainly different from life on Privet Drive. It was much quieter, first off, without a television constantly on or Dudley constantly complaining. At first, Harry worried that there wouldn't be much to do in such an empty, lonely place, but Malvora proved him wrong. There was plenty to be explore, both inside and outside of the manor. Harry found, for example, that the Melbarkes owned two tigers: Shakti, the Bengal and Sita the white tiger, who had been gifts to Malvora's father from an Indian Muggle who he did a job for once. There was also a ghost cat that lived in Malvora's basement who Malvora said was her ancestor, Pantherus Melbarke. Apparently, he had been the first wizard to transform into a cat.

Harry had never had so much freedom in his entire life. He and Malvora ate when they were hungry, slept when they were tired, and invented all sorts of ways to entertain themselves when they got bored. Harry felt strangely like he was living in the wild, far away from the order and schedule of the real world. It was enchanting, feeling that much farther away from the Dursleys, but it also made Harry feel much farther away from Hogwarts, which just made him anxious. So he was quite delighted when, a week after he arrived at the manor, a beautiful barn owl flew in with letters from Hogwarts.

"One for me and one for you," Malvora passed Harry an envelope of yellowish parchment, addressed in green ink. "Dumbledore must have known you were here. Creepy."

For a few minutes there was silence as they both read their letters. Harry's told him to catch the Hogwarts Express as usual from King's Cross station on September first. There was also a list of the new books he'd need for the coming year.

Second-Year Students Will Require:  
_The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 _by Miranda Goshawk  
_Break with a Banshee _by Gilderoy Lockhart  
_Gadding with Ghouls _by Gilderoy Lockhart_  
Holidays with Hags _by Gilderoy Lockhart  
_Travels with Trolls _by Gilderoy Lockhart  
_Voyages with Vampires _by Gilderoy Lockhart  
_Wanderings with Werewolves _by Gilderoy Lockhart  
_Year with the Yeti _by Gilderoy Lockhart

Malvora looked up at Harry with raised eyebrows.

"Whoa," she said.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "who's this Lockhart fellow anyway?"

"No, not that," said Mal. "I can't read all of these!"

Harry laughed and then asked, "How will we get these?"

Malvora shrugged and Harry knew she was already plotting to steal them somehow. Before he could say anything about his small fortune in Gringotts which could legally buy them books, when the little saw-whet owl, who was desperately trying to get in the window.

"Aegolius?" she whispered.

"What is it, Mal?" said Harry.

She opened the window, a grim expression on her face.

"It's my mother's owl."

The owl flew in, dropped a red envelope on the floor, pecked Malvora's head, and flew out before Camo could pounce on it. Malvora picked up the envelope as if it were poisoned, and opened it very slowly.

_" 'Dearest Daughter," _she read,

_" 'I need to do some things for Leonarus, so I'm coming back to town for a while. I know that you start school soon, and you'll need to buy some new things, so while I'm there, I'll take you to Diagon Alley on a shopping spree! It will be a girl's day out, just the two of us! Isn't that the loveliest thing you've ever heard? Oh, and I've got you some new dresses that are simply to die for! See you soon, love,'_

"she put a heart there and then says, _'More Love, Feralis.'_"

Harry looked at her, not quite sure how to respond. Malvora seemed to either be in deep thought, or frozen shock. Suddenly, she started running around her room, packing things.

"Come on, Harry!" she called. "Don't just sit there – we need to leave! Like now!"

Harry was stunned.

"Hurry up! My mother could get here any second!"

Harry tried to help, but it was too late. There was a cracking sound from downstairs, followed immediately by the clack of heels.

"Malvora!" a woman's voice called.

"Oh no," Mal groaned. "You need to hide or…" She paused and regarded Harry for a moment. "Harry, how old are you?"

"I just turned twelve," Harry said, "Why?"

Malvora looked at him closely for a while more.

"All right," she said. "I think you'll be fine. Come on, we have no choice but to face her."

Malvora took a deep breath and opened her bedroom door. Harry followed closely behind as she headed down the corridor and onto the winding staircase.

"Mal, where are you!" the voice called again, in a sing-song sort of way. "Ah, there you are, my sweet! Come give your mum a hug!"

Malvora looked as though she would rather drink poison than give the woman at the bottom of the stairs a hug.

Feralis Melbarke was a very tall woman, with long legs, who might be very beautiful underneath all the make-up. She had a head of loosely curled brown hair and long red nails that matched the red dress and heels she wore. Harry could see at once why Malvora didn't like her. She was easily the most vibrant person Harry had ever seen, the very opposite of Mal.

With reluctance, Malvora descended the steps and hugged her mother. It was only then that the woman noticed Harry, who was standing rather awkwardly farther up the stairs.

"You had a _boy _over, Mal?" Mrs. Melbarke said. "You naughty little girl! And who is the young man, if I might ask?"

"I'm Har –"

"Harold," Mal suddenly interrupted. "Harold – er, Douglas. Harold Douglas."

"Well hello, Harold Douglas! Come down, don't be shy – it's so nice to meet you! You have no idea how proud I am! I thought Malvora had no friends!" Feralis laughed a high, screeching laugh. "She's nothing like me, you know. If I had the house to myself, I'd have everyone over. I'd invite only the best of the governors and the royal families Leonarus has met; but Mal, no she would never throw a party, she's always by herself in that dreadful room of hers –"

"Feralis," Mal said, "where's dad?"

"He's on business, dear. Anyway, as I was saying, we've tried to get her to hang around with other rich families but she'll have none of it. You know, the Malfoys have a son her age, he's got great potential, and he goes to Hogwarts. You should try to court him, Malvora, he'd be an excellent match. Ooh, now I so wish to see the Malfoys again! How long has it been? –"

Harry's ears were ringing.

"Mother," Mal snapped angrily, "you said we were going to Diagon Alley!"

"Oh yes, that's right, I have business there. Hmm, and you two can't apparate, can you? Pity. We'll have to travel by Floo powder, then."

Mrs. Melbarke walked to the fireplace in the study and pulled a bowl from off the mantel.

"Gentlemen first, Harold," she said, holding the bowl out to Harry.

"W-what am I supposed to do?" Harry stammered.

"He's never traveled by Floo Powder before," Malvora said. "You go on ahead, we'll catch up."

Mrs. Melbarke nodded knowingly and grinned at her daughter.

"I'll leave you two alone for a minute, then."

She started a fire in the fireplace with her wand, took a pinch of the glittering powder out of the bowl, stepped into the fire, and threw powder into the flames.

With a roar, the fire suddenly turned emerald green and rose higher than Mrs. Melbarke, who stepped right into it, shouted "Diagon Alley!" and vanished.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Mal said at once. "I hoped you'd _never _have to meet her."

"She's not horrible," said Harry, trying to be a comfort. "Now tell me how to do this Floo Powder thing."

"It's easy, you just take a pinch of the powder, throw it in the fire, and say really clearly where you want to go. Take your time before you get in, if you want. I'll go after you to make sure you made it to the other side all right." She gave him an encouraging smile and held the bowl out to him.

Harry took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; he opened his mouth and said, "Diagon Alley."

It felt as though he were being sucked down a giant drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast – the roaring in his ears was deafening – he tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him feel sick – something had knocked his elbow and he tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning – now it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face – squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond – he closed his eyes again wishing it would stop, and then –

He stumbled out of a fireplace in Madam Malkin's Robes shop.

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, it took a moment to get a hold of himself. Malvora followed shortly behind him, stepping out of the fire as if she had just walked through a doorway.

"Excellent idea, Harry," she said, "ditching my mother by coming here instead of the shop next door. Great choice of a fireplace, too."

Harry hadn't planned it at all, but it was no use telling Mal that.

They left the shop and stepped into Diagon Alley. It was overly-crowded with witches and wizards, who were all huddled around Flourish and Blotts. There was a large banner stretched across the upper window:

GILDEROY LOCKHART

Will be signing copies of his autobiography

_Magical Me_

Today 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M.

Mrs. Melbarke's shining red dress was unmistakable in the large crowd.

"Hah," Mal laughed, "she only came to see a celebrity! She didn't want a girl's day out at all."

"We need to get our school books from there," said Harry.

"Yeah, but let's wait until she's gone." An idea suddenly shined in Mal's eyes. "Come here, Harry, I wanna show you something."

She took his hand and dragged him around a corner. The sunlight was immediately shrouded as they walked down a twisting alleyway and onto a dark street. It seemed to be an alley devoted to the Dark Arts. There was a shop with a nasty window display of shrunken heads, and closer to Mal and Harry, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking wizards were watching them from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other.

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told Harry he was in Knockturn Alley.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Mal, gazing in wonder around her.

Harry had to admit, there was something exciting about being in a place like this, where they clearly didn't belong. Dangerous, but exciting.

"Well if it isn' Malvora the Malicious," said a voice that made Harry jump.

An aged witch stood in front of a door, holding a tray of what looked like whole human fingernails. She leered at them, showing mossy teeth.

"Oh, hello, Miss Gertrude," said Mal. "Feeding the Were-rats again?"

"O' course I am, dearie. Poor creatures are dyin' at an alarmin' rate. Ministry wants ta ban 'em."

"That's horrible!" gasped Malvora.

"Ye' well, I best be on wit' it then. Tell yer father I said hello."

"Will do."

Only moments later, the owner of the shrunken-heads shop stepped outside. His face was entirely hidden by the hood of his cloak, but Malvora waved happily when she saw him.

"How's your dad, Mal?"

"I don't know, he's away on business."

A smile flashed under the hood.

"He owes me a drink, remind him, will ya?"

"Sure thing, Caper."

They stopped at the cage of spiders so that Malvora could goggle at them.

"Mal, what does your dad do?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," said Mal simply. "Whatever it is, he's gone all the time and he works with both wizards and Muggles. And he makes a fortune.

"Ooh, Borgin and Burkes! It's my favorite shop, come on, Harry! Come – on!"

Harry followed her into the largest shop on the street. It was old and dusty and full of strange, dark artifacts. A glass nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling.

"Mr. Borgin!" yelled Mal to the man who had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face.

"Malice!" said Mr. Borgin, affectionately. "My very best costumer! What brings you in, today?"

"I brought a friend to look around," said Mal. "I haven't got any money, but if I see something I like –"

"And you always do –"

"Then I'll get some money from my mother."

"Oh, Feralis is back in town? What about your father? How is he doing . . ."

Harry tuned them out and began to wander the store a bit. He prodded a skeleton which attempted to bite his hand, and looked closely at a bottle with a skull and crossbones taped on it. He glanced back toward the front of the store, following a shadowy thing creeping across the floor, when he spotted two people on the other side of the glass door.

"Mal, it's Draco."

"_What?_" Mal cried. "Quick, Harry! Get in that cabinet!" She pushed him into a black cabinet farther into the store.

"Ow," Harry complained when she stepped on his foot trying to climb in with him. "Why are we hiding from him?"

"I want to see what he's doing here," said Malvora. "Besides. . . I don't have an excuse for not sending him any letters all summer."

Mr. Borgin rolled his eyes and chuckled before drifting back into the storeroom as the Malfoys came inside. Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father, rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son and saying, "Touch nothing, Draco."

Draco, who had been reaching for the glass eye, said, "I thought you were going to buy me a present."

"I said I _might _buy you a new racing broom," said his father, drumming his fingers on the counter.

"Is that _all_?" Draco complained, looking sulky and bad-tempered.

"Ouch," Mal whispered, "move your big head so I can see out the crack, too."

"Wonder what Potter's up to right now. He hasn't felt the need to respond to any of my letters, you know – probably busy being famous and smart and wonderful –"

"You have told me this at least a dozen times already," said Mr. Malfoy, with a quelling look at his son. "Perhaps his repulsive Muggle family has prohibited him from having anything to do with magic – ah, Mr. Borgin."

Mr. Borgin had returned from the storeroom.

"Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again," said Mr. Borgin, "Delighted – and young Master Malfoy, too – charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced –"

"I'm not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling," said Mr. Malfoy.

"Selling?" The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin's face.

"You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids," said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. "I have a few –ah – items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call . . ."

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list.

"The Ministry wouldn't presume to trouble you, sir, surely?"

Mr. Malfoy's lip curled.

"I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumours about a new Muggle Protection Act – no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it –"

"So that's why Mother's in town today," said Mal. "She must be getting rid of some of my dad's things."

"- and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it _appear _–"

"I understand, sir, of course," said Mr. Borgin. "Let me see . . ."

"Can I have _that?_" interrupted Draco, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion.

"Ah, the Hand of Glory!" said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy's list and scurrying over to Draco. "Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir."

Malvora whined.

"No fair, I want _that!_"

"I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin," said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, "No offense, sir, no offense meant –"

"Though if his grades don't pick up," said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still, "that may be all he is fit for –"

"I _have _good grades!" Draco wined. "It's not my fault they're not the best. The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger –"

"I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam," snapped Mr. Malfoy.

Malvora and Harry both struggled to contain their laughter at Draco's abashed expression.

"It's the same all over," said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. "Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere –"

"Not with me," said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils flaring.

"No, sir, nor with me, sir," said Mr. Borgin, with a deep bow.

"In that case, perhaps we can return to my list," said Mr. Malfoy shortly. "I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today –"

They started to haggle. Harry watched as Draco drew nearer and nearer to their hiding place, examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to examine a long coil of hangman's rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals, _Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed – Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date._

Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He walked forward – he stretched out his hand for the handle –

"Done," said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. "Come, Draco . Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I'll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods."

The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner.

"Good day yourself, _Mister _Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven't sold me half of what's hidden in your _manor ._ . ."

Malvora and Harry fought to get out of the cabinet and both stumbled.

"They are prats, aren't they?" agreed Malvora, who went immediately to examine the Hand of Glory. "How much did you say this was, Mr. B?"

She pulled a sparkly red wallet out of her jacket that she must have swiped from her mother before they used the Floo powder.

"I thought you said you didn't have any money," said Harry.

"I lied."

Mal and Harry walked into the bright sunlight and back into Diagon Alley. They had just decided to go buy ice creams when Mrs. Melbarke put her hands on their shoulders, startling them.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "I've told Gilderoy Lockhart that I would bring you two for a picture! He'd absolutely love it, and I know it's just the thing the two of you would like! Come on, now, you do want to get your books don't you?"

Mal snuck the wallet back into her mother's purse.

"Oh my – is that?" said Mrs. Melbarke. "But it is! Lucius Malfoy!"

"No, mother, no –"

But it was too late, Mrs. Melbarke had grabbed the attention of Lucius and Draco, who had also been heading for Flourish and Blotts. She waved happily at them and Lucius forced a smile in return and waited while Mrs. Melbarke dragged Harry and Malvora over to them. Draco was regarding them both with a suspicious glare.

"Feralis," said Mr. Malfoy, leaning down to kiss Mrs. Melbarke's hand, "it's been far too long."

"Oh, Lucius, you're just as charming as ever, I see!"

Malvora tapped Harry's shoulder and then tried to slip into the crowd with him to get away.

"Where are you going?" said Draco coldly. "Not trying to avoid me, I hope, Melbarke – Potter."

Plan foiled, Malvora crossed her arms and turned back to him. Lucius and Feralis were still deep in their own conversation.

"Draco, I-" started Harry.

"Couldn't be bothered to respond to any of my owls all summer, eh, Potter? I suppose you think you're too good for writing letters, don't you?" said Draco.

"Don't be stupid," Harry snapped. "The Dursleys had me locked up, I couldn't mail anyone!"

"Oh, I'm sure," said Draco condescendingly.

"I'm telling the truth!" Harry was enraged. Here, he hadn't seen Draco all summer, and the first thing he did when they saw each other, was to start an argument.

"It's not always all about you, Malfoy," spat Malvora.

"You're one to talk! What's your excuse for not mailing me?" said Draco.

There was an awkward silence.

"I was busy feeding dragons in brazil," Malvora said, finally, with a triumphant expression.

"It's no wonder you and Potter get along so well, you're both excellent liars."

"Say that again, Malfoy!" She raised a fist.

"Malvora," pleaded Harry, "you're really not helping."

"Oh, you kids," said Feralis, interrupting their conversation, "you all get along so nicely! Now let's go inside and see Mr. Lockhart, go on, you first Harold."

The three of them were shuttled in the door of Flourish and Blotts, past a group of women who were all about Mrs. Melbarke's age, and a harassed-looking wizard who was saying, "Calmly, please, ladies . . . Don't push, there. . . mind the books, now . . ."

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard's hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair.

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash.

"Out of the way, there," he snarled at Draco, moving back to get a better shot. "This is for the _Daily Prophet –"_

"Hear that, Draco? The Daily Prophet has every right to trample our feet," said Malvora, while Draco rubbed his foot where the photographer had stepped on it.

Gilderoy Lockhart heard her. He looked up. He saw Draco – and then he saw Harry. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, "It _can't _be Harry Potter?"

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized Harry's arm, and pulled him to the front. The crowd burst into applause. Harry's face burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Melbarkes and Malfoys.

"Nice big smile, Harry," said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth. "Together, you and I are worth the front page."

"Oh, poor, Gilderoy," said Mrs. Melbarke. "However will we tell him that that's Harold Douglas, not Harry Potter?"

When he finally let go of Harry's hand, Harry could hardly feel his fingers. He tried to sidle back over to Malvora and Draco, but Lockhart threw an arm around his shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said loudly, waving for quiet. "What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I've been sitting on for some time!

"When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography – which I shall be happy to present to him now, free of charge –" The crowd applauded again. "He had _no idea_," Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose, "that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, _Magical Me. _He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

The crowd cheered and clapped and Harry found himself being presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, he managed to make his way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, where he saw a red-haired girl standing next to her new cauldron.

"Do you want these? Here, take them," Harry mumbled to her, tipping the books into the cauldron, just desperate to get away from all the attention.

"Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?" said Draco, who had made his way through the crowd with Malvora, each clutching their own stacks of Lockhart's books.

"Drop it, Draco," warned Harry, seriously not wanting to deal with him at the moment.

"_Famous _Harry Potter," said Draco in a seething drawl. "Can't even go into a _bookstore _without making the front page."

"Would you stop being such an idiot?" snapped Harry. "I'd give you all my fame if I could – I can't stand it!"

"When did you become such a liar, Potter? I'd say you've been spending too much time around Malvora –"

"Leave him alone," said a small voice. They both turned wide-eyed at the red-haired girl. Harry had completely forgotten she was even there. "H-he said he doesn't like being famous, so just leave him alone."

"Looks like you've got yourself a _girlfriend, _Potter," drawled Draco. The girl went scarlet.

"Oy, what are you two doing with my sister?" It was Ronald Weasley. "Are they picking on you, Ginny?"

"N-no, they were just – I . . ." The girl wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.

"Weasley," said Draco, but Harry cut him off.

"Don't," he said. "Let's just go."

Draco looked prepared to argue, but it seemed his fervor had died off. He turned his back on Ron and started to walk away with Harry when they heard:

"Well, well, well – Arthur Weasley."

It was Mr. Malfoy. He stepped up, put a hand on Draco's shoulder, and then faced the Weasley family with a sneer. He was speaking to a skinny man, who was obviously Mr. Weasley.

"Lucius," said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," said Mr. Malfoy. "All those raids . . . I hope they're paying you overtime?"

He reached into Ginny's cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration._

"Obviously not," Mr. Malfoy said. "Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny.

"We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy," he said.

"Clearly," said Mr. Malfoy.

"Malvora!" called Mrs. Melbarke, who had finally wandered over from Lockhart's table, "you really should come see this – Oh," a look of disgust swept over her face as she looked at the Weasleys, "and who are these . . . _interesting _people?"

"Pay them no mind, Feralis," said Mr. Malfoy. "They aren't worth the introduction."

There was a thud of metal as Ginny's cauldron went flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their heads ; there was a yell of, "Fight to the death!" from Malvora; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, "No, Arthur, no!"; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over; "Gentlemen, please – please!" cried the assistant, and then louder than all –

"Break it up, there, gents, break it up –"

Hagrid was wading through the sea of books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Mr. Malfoy had been hit in the eye by and _Encyclopedia of Toadstools. _He was still holding Ginny's old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.

"Here girl – take your book – it's the best your father can give you –" Pulling himself out of Hagrid's grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop.

"Come on," said Malvora to Harry, following Mrs. Melbarke out as well.

"One minute," said Harry. He turned to Ginny, awkwardly. "I'm really sorry – I didn't mean you any trouble." Without waiting for a response, he followed the others outside.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Melbarke was saying, "I wonder what Gilderoy must have thought of that awful display. You really should have restrained yourself Lucius."

"Are you kidding," said Mal, "that was all just extra publicity to the _magical mister Lockhart_." She rolled her eyes. "Besides, Draco's the one who started the whole fight in the first place."

"Me?" snapped Draco. "Potter was the one who –"

"Shut up, both of you," said Harry suddenly. "It's our first day all together in more than two months, and I'd like to enjoy it in peace."

Malvora and Draco looked at Harry and a light smile flickered over Mal's face.

"Truce, everyone?"

Harry nodded, smiling, and Draco folded his arms and scowled. Reluctantly, he said, "For now."


	4. The Whomping Willow

**Author's Note: **I really like Harry, Malvora's and Draco's chemistry. I feel like I did a better job with the three of them in this fic. What do you think, readers? :D

* * *

The end of the summer vacation came quickly. Mrs. Melbarke left the very same day as their time in Diagon Alley to be with her husband, and Harry and Malvora were again left alone at the manor while Draco was left to help his father move all of the dark artifacts from the Malfoy manor.

Then, the morning came for the train-ride to Hogwarts. Harry and Malvora didn't have much to do before they climbed into the fireplace to travel to a little wizarding café near King's Cross. They met the Malfoy's again when they were getting trolleys for their trunks and then hurried into the station.

Harry had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous year. The tricky part was getting onto platform nine and three-quarters, which wasn't visible to the Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It didn't hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.

"Go ahead, Draco," said Mr. Malfoy, looking at the clock overhead, which showed they only had five minutes to disappear casually through the barrier.

Draco puffed up his chest, strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy went next.

"Come on, Harry," said Malvora. "We've only got a minute to get in."

Harry made sure that Hedwig's cage was safely wedged on top of his trunk and wheeled his trolley around to face the barrier. Harry felt perfectly confident; this wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo powder. Both of them bent low over the handles of their trolleys and walked purposely toward the barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it, they broke into a run and –

CRASH.

Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward; Malvora's trunk fell off with a loud thump, causing Camo to yowl angrily, Harry was knocked off his feed, and Hedwig's cage bounced onto the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking indignantly; people all around them stared and a guard nearby yelled, "What in the blazes d'you think you're doing?"

"Lost control of the trolley," Harry gasped, clutching his ribs as he got up. Mal ran to pick up Hedwig, who was causing such a scene that there was a lot of muttering about cruelty to animals from the surrounding crowd.

"Why can't we get through?" Harry hissed to Mal.

"Don't ask me –"

Mal looked wildly around. A dozen curious people were still watching them.

"It's too late. We'll never get to the train on time, even if the gateway wasn't sealed."

Harry looked up at the giant clock with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ten seconds . . . nine seconds . . .

He wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was right against the barrier and pushed with all his might. The metal remained solid.

Three seconds . . . two seconds . . . one second . . .

"And that's it," said Mal, sounding stunned. "The train's gone. Have you got any Muggle money?"

Harry gave a hollow laugh. "The Dursleys haven't given me pocket money for about six years."

Mal pressed her ear to the cold barrier.

"It's hopeless," she said. "We're doomed."

They looked around. People were still watching them, mainly because of Hedwig's continuing screeches and Camo's howls.

"Someone will have to come out eventually," said Harry. "We'll just have to wait somewhere where we won't attract so much atten –"

Malvora was already pushing through the crowd, away from Harry. He struggled to catch up.

"Mal, what are you planning?" he asked, all too familiar with her furrowed brows and twinkling eyes.

"We can't just sit around and wait," she said plainly. "The gateway could be sealed on both sides which means that no one will come back through it and probably no one even knows that we're gone. We have to find our own way to get to Hogwarts."

"But how?" asked Harry as they walked out of the station and onto a side road.

Malvora was looking in the windows of the cars parked on the side of the road and cursing as she passed each one. At last, she came to an old Ford Anglia and her face lit up with a smile. She opened the door.

"We're lucky," she said. "They left the keys in the ignition. I don't know how to hotwire a car."

Harry could only gape at her as she began to load her things into the back seat.

"Malvora, we can't steal a car!" said Harry, stunned.

"What other choice have we got?" she snapped. "At least with this, we can follow the train to Hogwarts. Now hurry!"

Harry looked around, thinking about the poor Muggles who would walk outside and find their car missing. Then again, _they _wouldn't be trying desperately to get to Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, so Harry decided that his need was greater, promised himself he'd get the car back somehow, and handed Malvora Hedwig's cage to load into the seat.

At last, Malvora climbed into the driver's seat and turned the keys to the ignition. The car didn't respond. She turned the keys again and again, but the car was entirely dormant.

"No wonder someone left the keys in this piece of junk," she said, kicking the dash.

"Mal," said Harry, who had been looking carefully at the interior of the Anglia, "I don't think this is your average Muggle car."

He pointed to a row of strange buttons on the dashboard. He had never seen buttons like them in an ordinary car before, and could venture a guess to say they weren't for the radio.

Malvora pulled out her wand and prodded the ignition with it. It roared to life.

"Excellent, Harry!" she praised. "But if it's magical, what else can it do?"

She pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. Unexpectedly, the car around them vanished – and so did they. Harry could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his glasses on his nose, but for all he could see, he had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.

"Harry, you there?" said Mal's voice from his right.

"I think you turned us invisible."

"Brilliant! Let's see what else it can do!"

And the ground and dirty buildings on either side fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and glittering, below them.

"It's a flying car, Harry! A flying invisible car!"

Harry could not believe their good fortune, or the wonder of it all.

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harry, and Mal reappeared.

"Whoa!" said Mal, grinning from ear to ear.

"Malvora, the Muggles will see us!" said Harry, looking down at the streets below.

"Oh yeah."

Both of them pummeled the silver button. The car vanished. Then it flickered back again.

Malvora slammed her foot on the acceleration; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything turned dull and foggy.

"Now what?" said Harry, blinking at the solid mass of cloud pressing in on them from all sides.

"The train, remember?" said Mal.

"Dip back down again and see if you can spot it – quickly –"

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their seats, squinting at the ground.

"I can see it!" Harry yelled. "Right ahead – there!"

The Howarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet snake.

"Looks like it's going north," said Mal, tapping a compass on the dashboard. "Well then, we'll just have to check on it every once in a while."

And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out into a blaze of sunlight.

It was a different world. The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky, a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.

"Maybe we'll run into a dragon," said Mal.

They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a long time, they couldn't stop.

It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream. This, thought Harry, was surely the only way to travel – past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the prospect of seeing Draco's jealous face when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the sweeping lawn in front of Hogwart's castle.

They made regular checks on the train as they flew farther and farther north, each dip beneath the clouds showing them a different view. London was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive with multicolored ants, villages with tiny toy churches.

Several uneventful hours later, however, Harry had to admit that some of the fun was wearing off. He and Mal had pulled off their sweaters, but Harry's T-shirt was sticking to the back of his seat and his glasses kept sliding down to the end of his nose. He had stopped noticing the fantastic cloud shapes now and was thinking longingly of the train miles below, where you could buy ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a plump witch. _Why _hadn't they been able to get onto platform nine and three-quarters?

"Are we there yet?" moaned Mal, hours later still, from the passenger seat – she and Harry had swapped out so that she could take a nap. The sun had started to sink into their floor of cloud, staining it a deep pink.

"I'll check the train."

It was still right below them, winding its way past a snowcapped mountain. It was much darker beneath the canopy of clouds.

Harry put his foot on the accelerator and drove them upward again, but as he did so, the engine began to whine.

Harry and Mal exchanged nervous glances.

"Do flying cars need gas like normal ones?" asked Mal.

"I'm not sure."

And they both pretended not to notice the whining growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily darker. Stars were blossoming in the blackness. Harry pulled his sweater back on, trying to ignore the way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as though in protest.

"We're close," said Mal, stroking the dash as though to encourage the car. "You can make it."

When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while later, they had to squint through the darkness for a landmark they knew.

"_There!_" Harry shouted, making Mal, Camo and Hedwig jump. "Straight ahead!"

Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle.

But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed.

"Don't fail us now!" said Mal, kissing the dashboard. "You can do it!"

The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were issuing from under the hood. Harry found himself gripping the steering wheel very hard as they flew toward the lake.

The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of his window, Harry saw the smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below. Mal's eyes were closed.

"Almost – there," she muttered.

They were over the lake – the castle was right ahead – Harry put his foot down.

There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died completely.

Mal's eyes opened wide.

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, gathering speed , heading straight for the solid castle wall.

Harry swung the steering wheel around, they missed the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time.

"We're going to have to jump!" yelled Mal, peering out the window at the ground.

"ARE YOU MAD!" shouted Harry, who was pushing the car brake uselessly.

"TREE!" Mal screamed, pointing forward in terror, but it was too late –

CRUNCH.

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a golf-ball-sized lump was throbbing on Harry's head where he had hit the steering wheel; and to his left, Mal was shaking.

"Are you okay?" Harry said urgently.

"Now is not the time for stupid questions," Mal snapped.

Harry opened his mouth to make a retort, but he never got the chance. At that very moment, something hit Mal's side of the car with the force of a charging bull, sending her lurching sideways into Harry, just as an equally heavy blow hit the roof.

"What the –"

Malvora gasped, staring through the windshield, and Harry looked around just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every inch of the car it could reach.

Harry jerked as another twisted limb punched a large dent into his door; the windshield was now trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle-like twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be caving –

"RUN!" Mal screamed, throwing her weight against her door, but the next second she had been knocked backward into Harry's lap by a vicious uppercut from another branch.

"This is a horrible way to die!" she moaned as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating – the engine had restarted.

"_Reverse!_" Harry yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing out at them as they sped out of reach.

"You're my new best friend, car," panted Mal.

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. With two sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Harry felt his seat tip sideways: Next thing he knew he was sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told him that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Hedwig's cage flew through the air and burst open; she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off toward the castle without a backward look. Then, the dented, scratched, and the steaming car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

"Good," said Mal, as she pulled a struggling Camo from his crate. "There goes the evidence that we crashed into the Whomping Willow."

She glanced over her shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still flailing its branches threateningly.

"Come on," said Harry wearily, "we'd better get up to the school. . ."

It wasn't all the triumphant arrival they had pictured. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

"No, wait," said Mal suddenly. "Let's take a secret entrance. We'll get in huge trouble if we're caught."

She led Harry away from the front doors, toward a hedge that lined one of the castle walls. She looked around to be sure they weren't being watched, and ducked into a gap in the hedge that led to a small opening in the wall. It was incredibly difficult for them to get their trunks in, but at last they had entered a hidden Hogwarts tunnel, which opened up to allow room for them to walk.

"This goes straight under the Great Hall. They're probably done with the Sorting by now. We'll be able to catch up with the Slytherins heading for the dungeons."

At last, they came to a tapestry that led into a dungeon corridor and waited for the Slytherins to come down, heading for the common room. Soon, the rumble of voices came from around the corner and the flood of students flowed by. Mal and Harry slipped out from behind the tapestry, straight into the crowd, triumphant smiles on their faces.

"Can you believe the luck?" said Mal after high-fiving Harry. "We would have been in so much trouble if we'd been caught!"

"That is the understatement of the century," said a cold voice right behind them.

Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in the draft, stood Severus Snape. He was a thin man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy, shoulder-length hair. Harry had forgotten that Snape, being head of the Slytherin House, would be leading his students along the corridor – and Harry and Malvora had failed to notice that, with their disheveled appearances, they were easily spotted in the crowd of otherwise well-kempt Slytherins.

"Follow me," said Snape.

Not daring even to look at each other, Harry and mal followed Snape down a narrow staircase that led into the dungeons.

"In!" he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and pointing.

They entered Snape's office, shivering. The shadowy walls were lines with shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of revolting things Harry didn't really want to know the name of at the moment. The fireplace was dark and empty. Snape closed the door and turned to look at them.

"So," he said softly, "the train isn't good enough for the famous Harry Potter and the infamous Melbarke? Wanted to arrive with a _bang, _did we?"

"No, sir –" started Harry.

"We don't know what you're talking about, sir," said Mal, an expression of complete surprise on her face.

"Silence!" said Snape coldly. "What have you done with the car?"

This wasn't the first time Snape had given Harry the impression of being able to read minds. But a moment later, he understood, as Snape unrolled today's issue of the _Evening Prophet. _

"You were seen," he hissed, showing them the headline: _FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES. _He began to read aloud: "Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower . . . at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing . . . Mr. Angus Fllet, of Peebles, reported to police . . . Six or seven Muggles in all."

"Wow," said Mal, sounding impressed. "I'd like to take credit, but Harry and I were never in a flying car."

Snapes eyes narrowed in concentrated fury.

"Then would you mind explaining why the two of you were not on the Hogwart's express today? How else did you manage to make it to school and in such . . . _worn _condition?" He seemed to be looking at the bruise that was forming on Mal's jaw.

Malvora looked at Harry, who knew she had run out of ideas.

"Well, it's simple sir," said Harry. "There weren't any compartments left on the train, so we stayed in the storage room with the extra trunks. It wasn't really a smooth ride."

"Yeah," agreed Mal, "and we got stuck in there when the train stopped. It took us forever to pick the lock and get out. Otherwise, we would have had to waited until someone came to fetch all the extra luggage, and we really wanted to make it to the feast."

"But it looks like we missed it anyway," added Harry.

Snape had never looked angrier.

"Do you take me for a fool, Potter?" Snape snapped. "How do you explain the damage that has been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow, or the tire tracks in the grass?"

"Whoever rode that Ford Anglia probably crashed into it," said Mal.

Snape looked ready to leap forward and strangle her.

"The two of you will be expelled."

Harry felt as though he'd just been walloped in the stomach by one of the mad tree's larger branches. He felt extremely sick and tried not to look at a large, slimy something suspended in green liquid on a shelf behind Snape's desk.

"That's not fair!" Malvora stood up, indignantly. "Where's your proof that we're responsible for all that? How would we even manage to get a flying car? You should find out who it belonged to and then go hunting them down! As for me and Harry, we've been framed!"

"Miss Melbarke, if you dare suggest –"

There was a knock on the office door. Snape seethed in mid-snarl and then stood and answered the door. There stood the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.

Harry's whole body went numb. Dumbledore was looking unusually grave. He stared down his very crooked nose at them and Harry suddenly found himself wishing he and Mal were still being beaten up by the Whomping Willow. If they told Dumbledore their story, he would see right through it. They would be expelled for sure.

There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said, "Please explain yourselves."

Harry didn't dare speak as Malvora retold the lie about the Hogwarts Express. Somehow he knew that Dumbledore wouldn't believe a word of it. When she had finished, Dumbledore merely continued to peer at them through his spectacles.

"Are you expelling us, Professor?" asked Harry feebly.

"Not today, Harry," said Dumbledore. "We've already found who the owner of the Ford Anglia is, and unless the two of you _stole _it, you seem to have no connection to it whatsoever."

"Professor, you can't possibly believe this – _farce_, can you?" snapped Snape in disbelief.

"It will be for you to decide on their punishments, Severus," said Dumbledore calmly, "but they will not be expelled. As for you two," he glanced back at Harry and Malvora, "you should avoid situations where your integrity might be placed under question. Now, Severus, why don't you let them get some food before they head off to bed?"

Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Mal, told them that they both had detentions, and they were allowed out of his office and to the kitchens to get some dinner.

It was the sweetest escape Harry had ever been part of – even greater than when Mal rescued him from the Dursleys. Harry knew perfectly well that Dumbledore had seen right through their crafted story, yet he still hadn't punished them. Sure, they were receiving detentions from Snape, but at least they were still Hogwarts students.

They fetched some sandwiches and pumpkin juice from the kitchens and walked happily down toward the Slytherin common room.

"I am a genius," said Mal through a mouthful of sandwich.

"I made up most of that story," argued Harry as he took a swig of pumpkin juice.

"Wait 'til everyone hears about this!" said Mal. "It's a good thing we couldn't get through the barrier."

Harry rather wished they had gotten through the barrier, as it would have saved him a lot of trouble, but he chose not to say anything and took another bite of a sandwich.

"We'll have to watch our step from now on, though," he said. "I don't know how far we can push Dumbledore before he snaps."

"Who cares?" said Mal. "Do you realize that we flew a car to Hogwarts? I bet that's never been done before!"

Harry rolled his eyes as she continued reveling at their adventure. At last, they turned into the corridor where the secret passageway was that led into the Slytherin common room.

They stood at the blank wall and looked at each other. They didn't know the password to get inside, since they hadn't seen a Slytherin prefect yet.

"The two of you have become perfect chums, haven't you?"

Harry and Mal jerked around in surprise. Draco was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor, a very nasty expression on his face.

"Are the rumors true? Did you really crash a flying car?"

"Jealous, Draco?" asked Mal, a huge grin on her face.

"Jealous? Not at all," said Draco, a bit too forcefully. "I could care less about what the two of you do in your grand adventures."

"Which is why you waited for us to come to the common room." Mal rolled her eyes. "I think you _do _care, Malfoy. I think you care a lot."

"I only came to ask how you managed not to get expelled," snapped Draco.

"Do the two of you ever quit?" said Harry suddenly. "Draco, the next time Mal and I decide to steal a flying car, we'll invite you. Now what's the password?"

Draco fumed for a brief moment, then seemed to give in.

"It's Gall," said Draco, "and it's not as if I _want _to –"

His words were cut short, however, as the wall moved aside and there was a sudden storm of clapping as they exited the passageway into the common room. It looked as though the whole of Slytherin House was still awake, scattered throughout the large, square room, waiting for them to arrive. Some were clapping loudly, others were nodding in quiet reverence, and a few were stationed in the dark corners of the room, scowling suspiciously.

"Excellent!" yelled Adrian Pucey. "Bewitching a Muggle car to fly you here! And crashing into that blasted Whomping Willow!"

"Clever," said someone Harry had never spoken to.

"You'll have to teach me how to enchant a car like that," said a fifth year.

"Now, now," said Malvora loudly, "we aren't saying we had anything to do with the flying car, but –" She smiled widely and clapped Harry on the shoulder, "we aren't denying it either."

Harry didn't like the limelight half as much as Malvora, and quickly made his way out from the center of the crowd with Draco, who still looked affronted.

"Let's get out of here," said Harry quietly.

"You really _don't _like all the attention, do you?" asked Draco as they descended the stairs toward the dorms.

"I told you before, I'd give it all to you if I could."

After this, Draco seemed much more chipper and he even pushed a first year out Harry's way before they reached the second-year dormitory. They entered the familiar, rectangular room, with its six cots lined up and dressed in black sheets. Their trunks had been brought down for them and stood at the ends of their beds.

The dormitory door flew open and in came the other second year boys, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini, and Morag MacDougal.

"Very nice, Potter," nodded Blaise.

"I'd kill to have done it myself," said Morag.

"What do you think, Malfoy?" asked Gregory. He and Vincent always needed Draco's permission to think highly of anyone.

"It wasn't half bad," said Draco passively, but with a rare smile in Harry's direction.

Harry couldn't help it. He grinned, too.


	5. Gilderoy Lockhart

**Authors' Note: **Thanks to everyone for all the encouraging reviews. ^_^ Sorry for the late update (transferring internet to a house you haven't even moved into can be devastating), but here's chapter 5. As always, enjoy!

* * *

The next day, Harry grinned twice as much as the day before. Things continued to go uphill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long House tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray). Harry and Draco sat down at the Slytherin Table next to Mal, who had her feet propped up on the table and was doodling happily in her copy of _Voyages with Vampires._ She practically sang when she said "Morning," and even offered Draco what was left of her strawberry preserves.

Harry had only just started his porridge when there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. Draco received a neat, green envelope, likely from his parents, and opened it eagerly.

A smirk spread over his face.

"Father found out whose Ford Anglia it was. None other than Arthur Weasley. We saw him in Flourish and Blotts, remember?"

Harry nodded, remembering it all very clearly.

"Why would Arthur Weasley have an enchanted car?" he asked.

"Don't you know?" said Draco, surprised.

Harry looked at Mal, who shrugged in response.

"He works for the Ministry of Magic in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office," said Draco, "so naturally he had what he needed to make a flying car. He's the one responsible for the ministry going on raids to take dark artifacts from wizard families. Filthy Muggle-lover, he is. Father wants him fired, so the ministry is looking into the creation of the car. So far, they think that the car just flew off on its own."

"Good for us, eh Harry?" Mal nudged Harry's ribs.

Before Harry could answer, Vincent's voice rang out over the table.

"Oy, someone's got a Howler!"

Everyone's eyes flitted up at an old, tattered owl which had flown in late and now drooped with a red envelope to the Gryffindor table. The owl dropped straight into someone's porridge bowl, right in front of the red-haired Weasley twins. They looked at each other in shock.

"We haven't even done anything yet," said one of them.

"And mum's sent us a Howler?"

"What's a Howler?" asked Harry back at the Slytherin table.

"You'll see," said Mal with a wicked grin.

And suddenly –

_**"I KNOW THIS WAS YOUR DOING! I NEVER THOUGHT YOU TWO WOULD SINK THIS LOW! STEALING THE CAR? YOUR FATHER WANTS TO KNOW HOW YOU MANAGED TO GET IT TO FLY TO HOGWARTS ALL THE WAY FROM HERE! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT WE WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE –"**_

Mrs. Weasley's yells, a hundred times louder than anything in the castle, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table, and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. Mal, Draco, and Harry stared at each other in wonder. Malvora was struggling to hold back laughter.

_**"I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN'T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU TWO AND YOUR PRACTICAL JOKES! I'M ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED – YOUR FATHER'S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT IS ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE'LL BRING YOU BOTH STRAIGHT BACK HOME."**_

A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from the twin's hands, burst into flames and curled into ashes. Now, Malvora and Draco laughed, and Harry couldn't help but join in when the Weasleys high-fived each other, as if they were glad to have received the blame for the incident. Gradually, a babble of talk broke out again.

"Wait," said Mal, her smile fading, "now, no one's going to think that we drove the car, Harry."

Draco looked absolutely smug.

"It's the least you deserve, Melbarke."

"Oh well," said Mal with a dejected sigh. "We'll just have to find another way to make ourselves famous again."

Harry was quite glad that the blame had been moved away from him. He was beginning to get weary of all the attention. It already seemed that the Weasleys were the stars, now.

After Transfiguration, the Slytherins had double Herbology with the Ravenclaws. Harry, Draco, and Malvora left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. The Howler seemed to have done a good job of confusing the Slytherins, many of who had determined that Harry and Malvora must have lied about driving the car into the Whomping Willow, and in reality, it was just a prank pulled by a couple of Gryffindors. This made Mal's spirits drop, drastically, but Draco was acting as if the sun was shining for him alone.

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Harry, Draco, and Mal had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart.

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint. Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming.

"Oh, hello there!" he called, beaming around at the assembled students. "Just been telling Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don't want you running away with the idea that I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels . . ."

"Greenhouse three today, chaps!" said Professor Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self.

There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before – greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. He was about to follow Draco and Mal inside when Lockhart's hand shot out.

"Harry! I've been wanting a word – you don't mind if he's a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?"

Judging by Professor Sprout's scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said, "That's the ticket," and closed the greenhouse door in her face.

"Harry," said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as he shook his head. "Harry, Harry, Harry."

Completely nonplussed, Harry said nothing.

"When I heard – well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself."

Harry had no idea what he was talking about. He was about to say so when Lockhart went on, "Taking the credit for flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you'd done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, _Harry_."

It was remarkable how he could show every one of those brilliant teeth even when he wasn't talking.

"Gave you a taste for publicity, didn't I?" said Lockhart. "Gave you the _bug. _You got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn't wait to do it again."

"I think you have me confused with my friend –"

"Harry, Harry, Harry," said Lockhart, reaching a hand out and grasping his shoulder. "_I understand. _Natural to want a bit more once you've had the first taste – and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head – but see here, young man, you can't go _stealing _other people's fame like that. You've got to make your own. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you're older. Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking! 'It's all right for him, he's an internationally famous wizard already!' But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I'd say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven't they? All the business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" He glanced at the lightning scar on Harry's forehead. "I know, I know – it's not quite as good as winning _Witch Weekly's _Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have – but it's a _start. _Harry, it's a _start._"

He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off. Harry stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering he was supposed to be in the greenhouse, he opened the door and slid inside.

Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty different-colored earmuffs were lying on the bench. When Harry had taken his place between Mal and Draco, she said, "We'll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?"

A Ravenclaw, Gregory Grayson, raised his hand.

"The Mandragora is one of the most powerful restoratives. It can heal almost any cursed person to their original state. It's useful, but dangerous. The Mandrake's screams are fatal to anyone who hears them."

"Precisely. Take twenty points for Ravenclaw," said Professor Sprout. "Now, the Mandrakes we have here are all still very young."

She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable to Harry, who didn't have the slightest idea what Grayson meant by the "scream" of the Mandrake.

"Everyone take a pair of earmuffs," said Professor Sprout.

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn't pink and fluffy.

"When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are _completely _covered," said Professor Sprout. "When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right – earmuffs _on._"

Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.

Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear.

Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He had pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs.

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.

"As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill just yet," she said calmly as though she'd just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. "However, they _will _knock you out for several hours, and as I'm sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up.

"Four to a tray – there is a large supply of pots here – compost in the sacks over there – and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it's teething."

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder.

Harry, Draco, and Mal were joined at their tray by Gregory Grayson, who quietly nodded at them.

"Grayson," he said in a tiny voice, hair hiding his face. "You don't have to introduce yourselves, I know who you are. You're the famous Harry Potter. . . You're Malvora Melbarke – not the most applied student, but definitely the most clever" (Malvora beamed and told Grayson he was her new best friend) " – and you're Draco Malfoy. Your father's a governor and your family is perhaps the most powerful pureblood wizarding family alive, as of now, correct?"

Draco smirked and puffed his chest out.

"What about you, Grayson?" asked Draco. "I've never heard of your family." He didn't mean it in a rude way, it just seemed to be the first thing on Draco's mind when he met anyone new.

Grayson seemed to shrink back a bit, uncomfortable with the direct attention on him.

"That's logical," he said quietly, "as my parents are Muggles."

Draco raised both eyebrows at once. He clearly hadn't been expecting such an intelligent-seeming Ravenclaw to be from a Muggle family. This made the four of them rather awkward and they were saved from continuing the conversation when Professor Sprout asked them to put on their earmuffs again. She had made working on the Mandrakes look extremely easy, but it wasn't. The Mandrakes didn't like coming out of the earth, but didn't seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth; Harry spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot.

By the end of the class, Harry, like everyone else, was sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Slytherins hurried off to lunch. When Harry, Mal, and Draco were finished, they went outside into the overcast courtyard. Mal laid down on a stone step to take a nap. Harry and Draco stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before Harry became aware that he was being closely watched. Looking up, he saw a very small, mousy-haired boy staring at Harry as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry looked at him, he went bright red.

"All right, Harry? I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor. D'you think – would it be all right if – can I have a picture?" he said, raising the camera hopefully.

"A picture?" Harry repeated blankly.

"So I can prove I've met you," said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead" (his eyes raked Harry's hairline) "and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll _move_." Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, "It's _amazing _here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do with magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you" – he looked imploringly at Harry – "maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"

"Bugger off, you little prat," snapped Draco. "Potter's not giving out signed photos – and if he _were, _I would rather drown in the lake than take one for you."

"Sorry Creevey, but I really don't like –" started Harry.

"You're just jealous," Colin piped up to Draco, ignoring Harry completely.

"_Jealous?_" said Draco. "Of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself."

A crowd was gathering.

"Draco's right, I'm really not worth the ink, so why don't you go take a picture of the Whomping Willow or something? That would probably look cool in a moving photo."

Malvora yawned and sat up, rubbing her eyes. She couldn't sleep with all the noise.

"Harry?" she said in surprise. "You're getting your photo taken?"

"No! For the last time, I am not –"

"What's all this, what's all this?" Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. "Who's getting their photo taken?"

Harry started to speak, but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulder and thundered jovially, "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Harry!"

Harry was pinned to Lockhart's side and burning with humiliation.

"Come on then, Mr. Creevey," said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. "A double portrait, can't do better than that, and how about we both sign it for you."

Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of the afternoon classes.

"Off you go, move along there," Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set back with Harry, who was wishing he knew a good Vanishing Spell, still clasped to his side.

"A word to the wise, Harry," said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. "I covered up for you back there with young Creevey – if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up so much . . ."

Deaf to Harry's stammers, Lockhart swept him down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.

"Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible – looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but" – he gave a little chortle – "I don't think you're quite there yet."

They had reached Lockhart's classroom and he let Harry go at last. Harry yanked his robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where he busied himself with piling all seven of Lockhart's books in front of him, so that he could avoid looking at the real thing.

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Draco and Mal sat down on either side of Harry.

"This is getting old, fast," seethed Draco.

Malvora nodded in agreement.

"I can't compete with Harry for fame if he's constantly getting publicity."

"Shut up," snapped Harry.

"We're just teasing you," said Mal. "Draco and I will beat up the next person who asks for your photo, okay?"

"Or I could put Crabbe and Goyle on Potter Watch," said Draco, "and they could do it for us."

"Shut up!" said Harry again. The last thing he needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase "Potter Watch."

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom's copy of _Travel's with Trolls, _and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.

"Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of _Witch Weekly's _Most-Charming-Smile Award – but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by _smiling _at her!"

He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly.

"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books – well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about – just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in –"

When he handed out the test papers he returned to the front of the class and said, "You have thirty minutes – start – _now_!"

Harry looked down at his paper and read:

1. _What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?_

_2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?_

_3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement?_

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

54. _When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?_

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.

"Tut, tut – hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in _Year with the Yeti._ And a few of you need to read _Wanderings with Werewolves _more carefully – I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples – though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky!"

He gave them another roguish wink. Draco was now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief and disgust; Blaise Zabini and Morag MacDougal were sniggering to themselves, and Malvora was asleep and drooling on her uncollected test, which was empty of even her name.

". . . but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions – good girl! In fact" – he flipped her paper over – "full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"

A Gryffindor raised a trembling hand.

"Excellent!" beamed Lockhart. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so – to business –"

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

"Now – be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better look at the cage. Blaise and Morag had stopped sniggering now. Malvora sat up groggily.

"I must ask you not to scream," said Lockhart in a low voice. "It might provoke them."

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.

"Yes," he said dramatically. "_Freshly caught Cornish pixies._"

A Gryffindor let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.

"Yes?" He smiled at the boy.

"Well, they're not – they're not very – _dangerous, _are they?" the boy choked.

"Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at the Gryffindor. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!"

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people nearest them.

"Right, then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of them!" And he opened the cage.

It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville Longbottom by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Longbottom was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.

"Come on now – round them up, round them up, they're only pixies," Lockhart shouted.

He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, "_Peskipiksi Pesternomi!_"

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Longbottom, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way.

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Harry, Mal, and Draco, were almost at the door, and said, "Well, I'll ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cage." He swept past them and shut the door quickly behind him.

"Hogwarts has really gone to the dogs, hiring a farce like him," said Draco as he swatted at one of the pixies.

"And he doesn't know a thing about Cornish pixies," Mal added, right before she began to sing a lullaby. The pixies all hovered in mid-air and then started to snore. Harry, Draco and Mal began to gather them up.

"And he dealt with them in _Travels with Trolls_,_" _said Harry, who seemed to recall some Hermione Granger mentioning something like that at the beginning of class.

"Or so he _claims_," Draco muttered.


	6. Mudbloods and Murmurs

Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harry's schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, "All right, Harry?" six or seven times a day and see Harry look over at him, however annoyed his expression might be. Harry would be thankful for the weekend, when he had more of a chance of throwing Creevey off his trail.

He awoke on Saturday to the loud shout of Marcus Flint, Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team.

"POTTER, MALFOY, GET UP!"

"Whassamatter?" said Harry, jumping up in shock.

"Quidditch, got it? Come on, then! We got a signed note from Snape that says we can take the field from the Gryffindors who've been hogging the field for hours." Flint was a huge, troll-like sixth year and at the moment, he was smiling a wicked grin.

Harry yawned and stretched. Draco was doing the same one cot over. He looked over at Harry and smirked.

"It's always a good day to take something from the Gryffindors."

"That's the spirit," said Flint. "Now come on!"

Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes.

"Be outside in fifteen, got it?"

When he'd found his green team robes and pulled on his cloak for warmth, Harry waited for Draco and they ascended the stone staircase to the common room, Nimbus Two Thousands on their shoulders.

"Should we write a note to Mal and tell her where we're at?" asked Harry as they walked down the passageway to the secret wall.

"There's no use," said Draco, "she'll be asleep until after breakfast."

They met with the rest of the team just outside of the castle doors. Flint wanted them all together before they ganged up on the unsuspecting Gryffindors. They lined up and headed out across the misty grass toward the Quidditch field.

"Heads up, chums," said Chaser Pucey as they entered the field.

The Gryffindors were already in the air training. Harry groaned when he looked into the stands and saw Colin Creevey. He desperately hoped that Creevey wouldn't see him, but of course, Creevey almost fell right out of his seat when he saw the Slytherin robes.

Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Captain, landed so hard on his broom that he staggered when he dismounted. The Slytherins sniggered at this, as Fred and George Weasley and Ophelia Hart landed behind Wood.

"Flint!" Wood bellowed. "This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!"

Marcus didn't look in the least bit intimidated by Wood, and it was clear why. Wood might have been larger than Harry or Draco, but Flint was twice as large as Wood. He had a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."

The Gryffindor Chasers came over too. It was only now that Harry realized that the team was made up of mostly girls, whereas the Slytherins didn't have a single girl on the team.

"But I booked the field!" said Wood, positively spitting with rage. "I booked it!"

"Ah," said Flint, "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. _'I Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field._"

"Snape can't just sign off on something like that!" snapped Wood. "We _booked _it!"

"Harry! Look this way, Harry!"

"Oh, look," said Flint. "A field invasion."

It was Creevey, running across the grass toward the teams with his camera.

"Harry!" he said, panting for breath when he caught up with them. "I didn't know the Slytherins were practicing today, too!"

"That's because they're not," said Wood with finality.

"Oh," Creevey looked incredibly disappointed, "I was hoping I could take pictures of both the teams in action. Maybe I could get one of Harry –"

"No, Creevey," snapped Harry. "You don't belong on the Quidditch field, anyway. Just go back to the stands, all right? We're kind of in the middle of something here."

"Why don't you go find Professor McGonagall so that we can sort this all out?" said Alicia Spinnet, one of the Chasers.

Creevey didn't look put off at all.

"You could both play, like a real Quidditch game, and I could take pictures of Harry catching the snitch!"

"Oy, whose side are you on?" Ophelia Hart, the Gryffindor Seeker, snapped.

The Slytherins laughed boisterously at this.

Colin was lifting his camera, eagerly.

"Just one pic of the lot of you, please? Harry you can stand in the center –"

Draco decided he'd had enough. He stepped forward and swatted Creevey's camera out of his hands.

"Can't you take a hint, you filthy little Mudblood?" he spat.

Harry knew at once that Draco had said something really bad because there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Draco to stop Fred and George jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, "_How dare you!_", and Ophelia Hart pulled out her wand. She attempted to shoot sparks at Draco, but Pucey leapt at her and she ended up catching her own robes on fire.

Wood was desperately trying to put out the fire and the Slytherins were paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his broom for support. Draco had a hand on Harry's shoulder and was laughing in a crazed sort of way. Harry wasn't quite sure what to do. He wished he knew what Draco had said that caused all of this.

"What's going on here?"

Professor McGonagall was striding up, an angry expression on her face.

Everyone began talking at once. It took several minutes before McGonagall had the story straight. The only thing that had been left out, was what Draco had called Creevey. Everyone seemed reluctant to repeat it.

At last, Professor McGonagall decided that, since Gryffindor had booked the field first, they were allowed to have it for the morning and Slytherin could have it after lunch. No one seemed all that pleased with the compromise, but finally, the Slytherins marched off the field. Harry and Draco went off to eat breakfast, after which, they met Malvora in the hall and told her what had happened on the field.

"Then, Draco called Colin something. . . I can't remember exactly what it was, but it got everyone in a fight and Ophelia caught on fire," said Harry.

"I called him a Mudblood," said Draco, in a matter-of-fact tone.

SLAP

Harry jerked around, just in time to see Malvora pulling out of a hard smack across Draco's face. A stunned silence followed. Draco reached up, confusedly to his red cheek.

"You just slapped me!" he said, completely stunned.

"I cannot believe you called him that!" shouted Malvora. "You are a complete idiot!"

Draco stood frozen in shock.

"What does 'Mudblood' mean?" asked Harry.

"It's another word for Muggle-borns, and it's probably the rudest thing you could ever say to anyone. It means, 'dirty blood.'"

"But he _is _a Mudblood!" protested Draco when he had finally regained himself.

"It doesn't matter!" said Mal. "You should never have called him that to his face! You could get in a lot of trouble with important people."

"Father says that all Muggle-borns are Mudbloods," argued Draco.

"To _you, _maybe!" said Mal. "Not even your father is stupid enough to say it to someone's face. If he had, he wouldn't still be a governor, now would he?"

It was only then that Harry realized they were being watched. They had walked down a corridor and stopped in front of a stone staircase, where the red-haired girl from Flourish and Blotts was sitting on the bottom step, a quill in her hand and a very astonished look on her face. Harry thought that perhaps Draco and Mal's yelling had startled her. He nodded politely in her direction.

"Ginny, right?" asked Harry, who could distinctly remember Ronald Weasley calling her that in the shop.

Draco and Malvora seemed to just notice that she was there, for they were silent at once. The girl nodded, her face a scarlet shade, shoved her books into her bag and stood up.

"I- I should go," she stammered, right before running down the hall.

Malvora was sniggering.

"What?" asked Harry.

"You really have got yourself a girlfriend, Potter," said Draco, laughing with Malvora.

"I have _not_," said Harry, annoyed.

"She was looking at you the same way Pansy looks at Draco," said Mal. "Like you're the roast at the Christmas feast."

They all looked at one another and started to laugh. The word 'Mudblood' was forgotten, as well as any tension between Draco and Malvora. The three of them had never laughed so hard in all of their time together. They might have laughed forever if it hadn't been for the cold drawl that interrupted them.

"Enjoying yourselves Mr. Potter? Miss Melbarke?"

It was Snape, standing right behind them, tall and ominous in the otherwise empty corridor.

"Not anymore," muttered Malvora.

"Good," drawled Snape, who had heard. "The two of you will be doing your detentions this evening."

"What will be doing?" asked Mal. "Hunting monsters in the forbidden forest?"

Snape was not amused. His eyes narrowed .

"_You_, Miss Melbarke, will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch," he said. "And no tricks or I will have you serve me in detention, are we clear?"

"Cleaning trophies?" said Malvora. "That's not so bad."

"_Without _magic," added Snape.

Malvora groaned.

"And you, Potter," a devilish smile twitched on Snape's lips, "will be assisting Professor Lockhart in answering his fan mail."

Harry could think of no worse torture, and understood perfectly well why Snape looked so triumphant.

"Can't I go and do the trophy room, too?" he asked desperately.

"Absolutely not," said Snape. "Professor Lockhart specifically requested you."

"Of course he did," moaned Harry, miserably.

"Your detentions will be at eight o' clock," Snape turned to Draco, "And, Draco, I would suggest you find a more suitable group of acquaintances." And Snape turned on his heels and walked away, robes billowing behind him.

Harry and Mal slouched against the wall in states of deepest gloom, Draco wearing a smug expression in front of them.

"I could always jinx Filch," said Mal, though she lacked her normal fervor. Somehow she knew that Snape would be the wiser to any trick she could pull out of her sleeve. "I'll be stuck with Filch all night! I'll miss my beauty sleep!"

"I'd swap anytime," said Harry hollowly, "I've had loads of practice with Muggle cleaning at the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart's fan mail . . . He'll be a nightmare. . ."

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, even with Quidditch practice, and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was dragging his feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office. He gritted his teeth and knocked.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at him.

"Ah, here's the scalawag!" he said. "Come in, Harry, come in –"

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.

"You can address the envelopes!" Lockhart told Harry, as though this was a huge treat. "This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her – huge fan of mine –"

The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart's voice wash over him, occasionally saying, "Mmm" and "Right" and "Yeah." Now and then he caught a phrase like, "Fame's a fickle friend, Harry," or "Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that."

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley's address. _It must be nearly time to leave, _thought Harry miserably, _please let it be nearly time _. . ."

And then he heard something – something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart's prattle about his fans.

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breath-taking, ice-cold venom.

"_Come . . . Come to me . . . Let me rip you . . . Let me tear you . . . Let me kill you . . ._"

Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley's street.

"_What?_" he said loudly.

"I know!" said Lockhart. "Six solid months at the top of the best-seller list! Broke all records!"

"No," said Harry frantically. "That voice!"

"Sorry?" said Lockhart, looking puzzled. "What voice?"

"That – that voice that said – didn't you hear it?"

Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.

"What _are _you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you're getting a little drowsy? Great Scott – look at the time! We've been here nearly four hours! I'd never have believed it – the time's flown hasn't it?"

Harry didn't answer. He was straining his ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling him he mustn't expect a treat like this every time he got detention. Feeling dazed, Harry left.

It was so late that the Slytherin common room was almost empty. Harry went straight down to the dormitory. Draco was already asleep, which Harry was glad for. He didn't want to tell him, or anyone for that matter, what he had heard in Lockhart's office.

He pulled on his pajamas, got into bed, and stared up at the stone ceiling overhead. Had an invisible person said those things – no, Lockhart would have been able to hear an invisible person.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to force himself to believe that it really had been his imagination. There was simply no other explanation.


	7. The Deathday Party

**Author's Note:** Thanks for everyone's reviews! For the most part, we really appreciate them. We just plead that you be respectful when you review. Spoiling the original story for readers who haven't read that far and mindlessly flaming without anything to back your words is simply unacceptable. If you think that Harry doesn't belong in Slytherin, perhaps you should read _other _fanfics. We aren't trying to stomp on anyone's preferences, we're just trying to entertain the readers who like this idea. That's why we love feedback from you guys, so please keep reviewing (but remember to be respectful.) ;)

And to you The Queen of Black: I laughed when you said that you were like Malvora. Somehow, I imagine, if Malvora were to have a account, The Queen of Black would be _exactly _the type of name she'd choose. But as a disclaimer, all characters are fictional and any real-life similarities are purely coincidental, lol. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and making us laugh. *thumbs up*

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October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Malvora thought it would be humorous to steal a bottle of the potion and slip drops of it into all the cups she could manage at breakfast. A large handful of students were still steaming by lunch.

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, making it even darker in the Slytherin common room, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and some pumpkins Hagrid was growing near his hut swelled to the size of garden sheds. It was rumored that the Gryffindor Quidditch team was still practicing constantly, despite all the rain, which irked no one more than Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint.

One day, Harry, Draco and Malvora were lounging in the common room. Malvora was sketching a picture of the giant squid that lived in the lake, Draco was criticizing it from over her shoulder and petting her cat, Camo, and Harry was trying to finish his potions homework. It was just when Malvora had redrawn a squid tentacle for the fifth time that Flint stomped over to them.

"I have a job for you two," he said, looking directly at Harry and Draco.

Malvora crumpled her sketch and threw it across the room for Camo to chase.

"I heard that the Gryffindors are out practicing right now, and that they've got all sorts of new plans and techniques for beating us this year," said Flint. "So I want you two to spy on them."

Harry and Draco looked at each other, surprised.

"Why send us?" asked Draco suspiciously.

"Because you little prats are the smallest, fastest members of the team," said Flint. "Which makes you the sneakiest. Now, I want you to go in there, see their game-plan, and maybe sabotage some broomsticks while you're at it, got it?"

"I'll gladly volunteer," said Draco as he stood with a smirk. "What do you say, Harry?"

Harry stood up as well.

"I'll do it, too," he said.

"Oh, I know you will," said Flint, a threatening gleam in his eye, "and you'll come back with information I can use, got it?" He flexed a fist and then strode down to the dormitories.

"Come on, then, Harry," said Draco, heading for the passageway.

Malvora stuffed her sketchpad into her bag and hurried after them.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Draco.

"With you, obviously." She rolled her eyes.

"This is Quidditch business, so clear off," said Draco. "You'll just get in the way."

"The truth is," said Mal, "I'm twice as sneaky as both of you, and if you go without me, you're bound to get caught."

"We don't need the distraction," snapped Draco.

"Oh, so I distract you, do I, Malfoy?" said Malvora, grinning. She didn't wait for a response. She was already down the passageway and going through the secret wall.

Draco gave Harry a distressed look. Harry just shrugged.

The three of them snuck out onto the Quidditch field to watch the Gryffindors practice. It wasn't nearly as eventful as any of them had hoped, not to mention that it was wet and muddy. Finally, when the Gryffindors were preparing to land, Harry, Draco and Mal headed back inside, tracking mud down the corridors.

"That was entirely pointless," Mal complained.

"You're the one who wanted to come so badly," pointed out Draco.

"What should we tell Flint when we get back-"

The rest of Harry's sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling from somewhere near his ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle against students.

"Uh – oh," said Malvora, who was already running to hide behind a suit of armor.

Draco and Harry tried to follow after her, but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to Harry's right, wheezing and looking wildly around for the rule-breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

"Filth!" he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry and Draco's robes. "Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me!"

So Harry and Draco trudged after Filch, glancing at the suit of armor from which Malvora watched them walk away. Filch led them down to his office, doubling the number of footprints on the floor.

Harry had never been inside Filch's office before; it was a place most students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch's desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment.

"Dung," he muttered furiously, "great sizzling dragon bogies. . . frog brains. . . rat intestines. . . I've had enough of it. . . make an _example_. . . where's the form. . . yes. . ."

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.

"_Names_. . . Harry Potter – Draco Malfoy. _Crime_. . ."

"It was only a bit of mud!" said Harry.

"It's only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it's an extra two hours of scrubbing!" shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. "_Crime_. . . befouling the castle. . . _suggested sentence_. . ."

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry and Draco, who waited with bated breath for their sentence to fall.

But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! On the ceiling of his office, which made the oil lamp rattle.

"PEEVES!" Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a transport of rage. "I'll have you this time, I'll have you!"

And without a backward glance at Harry or Draco, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him.

Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to cause havoc and distress. Harry didn't much like Peeves, but couldn't help feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it sounded as though he'd wrecked something very big this time) would distract Filch from Harry and Draco.

"We should probably wait for Filch to come back," said Harry as he sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk.

"The nerve of that girl," Draco was saying. "Hiding out while we got snatched by Filch –"

Harry ignored him and looked at Filch's desk. There was only one thing on it apart from his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn't on his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read:

KWIKISPELL

_A Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic_

"Draco, look at this," said Harry, intrigued. He flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said (and Harry read out loud):

"_Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork?  
There is an answer!_

"_Kwikispell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick, result; easy-learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikispell method!_

"_Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes:  
'I had no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke!  
Now, after a Kwikispell course, I am the center of attention at parties  
and friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!'_

"_Warlock D.J. Prod of Didsbury says:  
'My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your  
fabulous Kwikispell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak!  
Thank you Kwikispell!'"_

Fascinated, Harry looked up at Draco.

"I always knew Filch was a good-for-nothing Squib," said Draco, a look of disgust on his face.

"What's a squib?" asked Harry. "Does that mean Filch isn't a proper wizard?"

Before Draco could answer, shuffling footsteps sounded outside, telling them that Filch was coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened.

Filch was looking triumphant.

"That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!" he was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris. "We'll have Peeves out this time, my sweet –"

His eyes fell on Harry and Draco and then darted to the Kwikispell envelope, which, Harry realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.

Filch's pasty face went brick red. Harry and Draco braced themselves for a tidal wave of fury. Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer.

"Did you two – did you read –?" he sputtered.

"No," lied Harry and Draco in unison.

Filch's knobbly hands were twisting together.

"If I thought you'd read my private – not that it's mine – for a friend – be that as it may – however – "

Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan scarf didn't help.

"Very well – go – and don't breathe a word – not that – however, if you didn't read – go now, I have to write up Peeve's report – go –"

Amazed at their luck, Harry and Draco sped out of the office, up the corridor and back downstairs. To escape from Filch's office without punishment was probably some kind of school record.

"Hey you guys, did it work?"

Malvora busted out from behind a tapestry, startling Draco and Harry.

"I got Peeves to drop that cabinet over Filch's office. I was trying to create a diversion so you two could come up with a plan."

"You did that?" said Draco, skeptically.

"Of course I did!" snapped Mal.

"Well, it worked," said Harry. "We didn't even get detention."

They told Malvora about what had happened in Filch's office as they set off toward the dungeons.

"No wonder he's so angry all the time," said Mal, as they entered the common room. "He's non-magical and he works at a school _for _magic!"

"I knew all along," said Draco. "Father's told me all about the staff members that I should avoid."

"This is good for the three of us, though," said Mal, in a quieter tone due to the other students in the common room.

"How?" asked Harry.

"For the first time ever," said Mal, with a gleam in her eyes, "we have blackmail we can use against an adult. The next time he wants me to clean trophies, I'll just say, 'Are you sure you want me to clean trophies, Mr. Squib – er, I mean, Filch?'"

This plan was so wicked and cunning, that Draco and Harry couldn't help but agree.

Halloween arrived and the whole school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, vast pumpkins that Hagrid had carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

So at seven o' clock, Harry, Draco, and Malvora walked into the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles. They took their seats at the end of the Slytherin table and Draco complained about not getting there sooner to get seats closer to the giant lanterns. They _had _planned on arriving around six thirty, but Malvora spent a great deal of time looking for Camo at the last minute, because she wanted to bring him to the feast.

"Why did you bring that animal, anyway?" asked Draco, sneering at the black and white bundle of fur that was sitting on Mal's lap.

"So that he could chase the bats, of course," said Mal simply. She released Camo and he darted off the bench, straight after a bat that had been flying lower than the rest.

The feast appeared suddenly; all manner of cooked pumpkin and squash, turkey and ciders and potatoes and sweet potatoes filled up the plates and goblets. Dumbledore made a short speech about the food and the dancing skeletons he'd invited, and sat down to eat.

Harry was just sampling some peculiar, purple sparkling cider when he heard Malvora curse under her breath.

"What's the matter?" he asked, as Malvora ducked to look under the table.

"Camo's gone," she said.

"I told you it was a bad idea to bring that stupid cat," said Draco smugly.

Malvora took a moment to throw a fork at him before she continued her search.

"Is that him?" said Harry, pointing across the hall at a doorway that had just been opened by a late arrival to the feast. A flash of black and white shot past the feet of the unsuspecting Hufflepuff and Malvora groaned.

"I'll be back," she said, before running out after her cat.

"I warned her not to bring him," said Draco again before prodding at a mound of mashed sweet potatoes.

Halfway through the feast, Dumbledore called out the troupe of dancing skeletons. Everyone watched in wonder as they danced a complicated ballet across the hall, bones clattering with each step. It was the most exciting thing most of them had ever seen, and everyone clapped loudly when they all took their bow.

After the skeletons marched out of the doors, it was time for desert. The dinner plates had only just vanished, however, when Malvora's whisper came from behind Draco and Harry, startling them.

"Will you stop doing that?" snapped Draco.

"Doing what?" said Mal. "Never mind that. You guys have got to see this!"

They turned toward her. She was holding Camo in her arms and her face was alight with the excitement of adventure.

"Come on!" she called, tugging on their sleeves and then darting out of the Hall.

"I haven't even tasted the blackberry pie," Draco complained before standing up with Harry.

Malvora lead them down in the direction of the dungeons. For a moment, Harry thought she was taking them back to the common room, but then she turned down a passageway that had been lined with candles, nothing like the bright ones in the Great Hall: These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping on an enormous blackboard.

"What is all of this?" asked Draco, a tinge of fear in his voice.

"You'll see," said Malvora.

They turned a corner and saw a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

"You won't believe this," whispered Mal, as they entered through the doorway.

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.

"I found this place when I was looking for Camo," said Malvora, in absolute awe.

"But what is it?" asked Harry.

It was then that they heard the mournful voice of the Gryffindor ghost, Nearly Headless Nick. He approached them, looking slightly surprised at seeing them there.

"If it isn't Harry Potter and friends," he said, bowing after taking off his plumed hat. "Are the three of you lost?"

"No," said Mal. "Where did all these ghosts come from? And why are they here?"

He looked suddenly rather proud.

"Today is my five hundredth deathday," he said. "And it's not a bad turnout. The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent."

"Wow," said Mal, wide-eyed, "congratulations."

"Yes, yes, happy deathday, now can we go back to the feast?" asked Draco, who was shivering in his robes.

"Not yet!" said Mal.

"Do stay," said Nearly Headless Nick. "Some ghosts will be rather impressed that living people showed up to my party."

"Like the Bloody Baron?" asked Mal, pointing the gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost who was covered in silver bloodstains and was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

"Er –" said Nearly Headless Nick, "perhaps. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go sample the cake." And he drifted off to a table full of rotten food.

"Come on, Malvora," groaned Draco. "Can we please leave? There's pumpkin custard being served in the Great Hall and Crabbe and Goyle are bound to eat all of it before we get back."

Mal considered this for a moment, and then finally nodded. They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.

"Hello, Peeves," said Harry cautiously.

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.

"Nibbles?" he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

Malvora took the bowl and examined the contents with interest.

"Heard you was leaving," said Peeves, his eyes dancing. "You can't leave yet. You haven't even been introduced to Myrtle."

"Myrtle?" said Harry and Draco.

"Ew, I don't want to talk to her," said Mal. "She haunts a toilet."

"OY! MYRTLE!"

The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.

"What?" she said sulkily.

"You were invited to Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party?" asked Mal in a condescending tone.

Myrtle sniffled.

"No, of course not," she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes. "No one would invite Fat Myrtle to a party! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!"

"You've forgotten pimply," Peeves hissed in her ear.

Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves snatched the bowl of moldy peanuts from Malvora's hands and ran after Myrtle, pelting her with them, yelling, "_Pimply! Pimply!_"

Malvora was doubled over in laughter.

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd.

"Enjoying yourselves?"

"Oh, yes," Harry and Malvora said at once, though Harry was lying and Malvora, on the other hand, was quite enthusiastic.

"I'm not," said Draco in a very annoyed drawl. "_Now, _can we leave?"

This time, Malvora nodded in agreement.

"Let's go," said Harry.

They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of black candles.

"We might still get some custard," said Draco bitterly, leading the way toward the steps to the entrance hall.

And then Harry heard it.

". . . _rip_. . . _tear_. . . _kill_._ . ."_

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in Lockhart's office.

He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.

"Harry, are you all-"

"Don't you hear it?" Harry said. "That voice? Shut up for a minute and listen."

". . . _soo hungry._ . . _for so long_. . ."

"Listen!" said Harry urgently, and Draco and Malvora froze, watching him.

". . . _kill_. . ._ time to kill._ . ."

The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away – moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped him as he stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn't matter?

"This way," he shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs, into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Draco and Malvora clattering behind him.

"He's lost his marbles."

"SHH!"

Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice: ". . . _I smell blood_. . . _I SMELL BLOOD!_"

His stomach lurched –

"It's going to kill someone!" he shouted, and ignoring Draco and Malvora's bewildered faces, he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps –

Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Draco and Mal panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

"Do you think this is funny, Potter?" said Draco, kneeling over to catch his breath.

Malvora gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN

OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

"No, it can't be," said Mal, suddenly leaning to pick up Camo and hold him close to her.

Draco smirked lightly at the words, and then his expression changed and he said, "What's hanging from the light?"

As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped – there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Draco and Mal grabbed him, and they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All three of them realized what his was at once, and leapt backward with a splash.

Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring. For a few seconds, they didn't move. Camo was yowling.

"We need to get out of here, now," said Mal.

"Shouldn't we try and help –" Harry began awkwardly.

Malvora and Draco had already darted to hide behind a gargoyle-like statue, but for Harry it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told him that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where he stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends.

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Draco and Malvora slipped effortlessly into the crowd, giving Harry apologetic glances at Harry, who stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

Someone screamed.


	8. The Writing on the Wall

Chapter 8: The Writing on the Wall

**Author's Note: **Hey guys! I know it's been way too long since there were any kind of updates to this fic. The truth is, stuff can fall apart pretty fast when you're co-writing with someone. The good news is, I never stopped getting emails of people continuing to favorite and write reviews for the old work. One day, reading through them, I realized there were several more chapters my friend and I had written that were never published! Needless to say, I'm here to publish them for anyone still interested in the story, and it is my sincerest desire to continue the Slytherin tales. I was never happier than when working on them. ^_^

As always, whether you're brand new or someone from two years ago who still happens to wonder what happens next, read and review to your heart's content! I am very excited to be continuing this story, as I hope you are too! Let's get back to it!

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"What's going on here? What's going on?"

Attracted no doubt by the scream, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.

"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?" he shrieked.

And his popping eyes fell on Harry.

"_You!_" he screeched. "_You!_ You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll –"

"_Argus!_"

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.

"Come with me, Argus," he said to Filch. "You, too, Mr. Potter."

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.

"My office is the nearest, Headmaster – just upstairs – please feel free –"

"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Dumbledore.

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

As they entered Lockhart's darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry sank into a chair outside the pool of candlelight, watching.

The tip of Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris's fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions.

"It was definitely a curse that killed her – probably the Transmogrifian Torture – I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her. . ."

Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. This act of sadness was not quite enough to make Harry feel sorry for Filch; he was much too busy feeling sorry for himself. If Dumbledore believed Filch, Harry would be expelled for sure.

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but nothing happened: She continued to look as though she had recently been stuffed.

". . . I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou," said Lockhart, "a series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once. . ."

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net.

At last Dumbledore straightened up.

"She's not dead, Argus," he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented.

"She has been petrified," said Dumbledore ("Ah! I thought so!" said Lockhart). "But how, I cannot say. . ."

"Ask _him!_" shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Harry.

"No second year could have done this," said Dumbledore firmly. "It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced –"

"He did it, he did it!" Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found – in my office – he knows I'm a – I'm a – " Filch's face worked horribly. "He knows I'm a squib!" he finished.

"I never _touched _Mrs. Norris!" Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him, including all the Lockharts on the walls. "And what does you being a Squib have to do with anything?"

"Ah hah!" snarled Filch. "You did see my Kwikispell letter!"

"If I might speak, Headmaster," said Snape from the shadows, and Harry's sense of foreboding increased; he was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to do him any good.

"Potter may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it. "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn't he at the Halloween feast?"

"I was at Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party!" Harry said. "There were hundreds of ghosts, they'll tell you I was there—"

"But why not join the feast afterward?" said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. "Why go up to that corridor?"

Harry thought for a moment.

"Because—because—" he said, his heart thumping very fast; something told him it wasn't the best idea to tell them that he'd been led there by a bodiless voice no one but he could hear, "because I was chasing after Malvora's stupid cat," he said.

"Where is the cat now?" said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face.

"He got away," said Harry.

"Hmm, a likely story," said Snape. "I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful."

Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze made Harry feel as though he were being X-rayed.

"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly.

Snape looked furious. So did Filch.

"My cat has been Petrified!" he shrieked, his eyes popping. "I want to see some _punishment_!"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," said Dumbledore patiently. "Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris."

"I'll make it," Lockhart butted in. "I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep—"

"Excuse me," said Snape icily. "But I believe I am the Potions master at this school."

There was a very awkward pause.

"You may go," Dumbledore said to Harry.

He went as quickly as he could without actually running. When he was a floor below Lockhart's office, Draco and Malvora suddenly slipped around the corner.

"Well, did you get expelled?" said Draco.

Harry remembered how they'd both left him to take the blame for Mrs. Norris.

"What do you care if I get expelled?" he said, pushing past Draco.

"Oy, what's your problem, Potter?"

"_You're_ my problem," said Harry angrily. "Both of you!"

"Is this about us leaving you in the corridor?" said Mal, running to catch up with him, "Because we didn't mean to get you in trouble."

"It's not our fault that you didn't get out of the way when we did," said Draco, sneering.

"You could have at least come to Lockhart's office with me," said Harry.

"We waited for you to come back, didn't we?"

"Yeah," Malvora yawned, "it's midnight. We could be in bed, you know."

"Then go to bed," Harry snapped. "I don't want to waste any more of your time."

Harry stomped ahead of them and went straight to his dorm. By the time Draco had gotten to the dorm, Harry was already in bed, turned away, with his pillow over his head.

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone's minds by pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When Filch wasn't guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like "breathing loudly" and "looking happy."

Harry was still ignoring Draco and Malvora, who- in return- ignored him right back. Occasionally, Draco would pass him with a snide comment in the dorm, or Mal would call out his name but then change her mind rather suddenly and go back to whatever she was doing. In fact, the only other time he heard their voices was when he overheard them talking in the common room one morning.

"Have you seen Camo?" Mal was asking, sounding very upset.

"He's probably killing rats somewhere," said Draco.

"I've got to find him! What if the attacker goes for him next?"

"I seriously doubt the attacker wants to petrify your cat."

"You can never be too sure," Mal said. "Plus," she continued, lowering her voice to almost a whisper, "we have to be extra careful since the Chamber of Secrets is open. . ." At that moment, she saw Harry looking at them from near a glass window and she stopped talking. Draco stood up with her and they walked out of the common room. It was strange enough, not talking to Draco and Mal for so long, but stranger still to see the two of them getting along without him—and he was horribly curious about this Chamber of Secrets, but had no idea how to learn about it on his own.

The following Wednesday was when it occurred to Harry to look in the library for something about the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape had made him stay behind to scrape tubeworms off the desks. After a hurried lunch, he went upstairs toward the library, and saw Gregory Grayson, the Ravenclaw boy from Herbology, coming toward him. Harry nodded in his direction, but when Grayson saw him, he stopped walking, narrowed his eyes at Harry, and turned on his heels to slink off in the opposite direction. Harry wondered if it was possible that Grayson really believed Harry had petrified Mrs. Norris.

The library was more crowded than usual and Harry was sure that all the students were there for the same reason: to find out more about the Chamber of Secrets. He ignored the bustle and went into the bookshelves, looking for books about Hogwarts and legends that concerned the castle. He couldn't seem to find anything however, and was beginning to give up hope. He was just thinking that maybe it would be better to ask someone about the chamber, when a familiar voice caught his attention.

"If you're looking for _Hogwarts, A History_, Blaise just picked up the last copy. Looks like you're out of luck." It was Draco, leaning against a bookshelf with a smile that told Harry he knew something Harry didn't, and was glad to point it out.

Harry ignored him and started pulling random books off the shelf as if he knew what he was looking for.

"Wouldn't you rather ask someone about the Chamber of Secrets? Someone who knows all about it?" said Draco.

Harry didn't say anything.

"You of all people should know about it," Draco continued, a bit more forcefully. "After all, there have been. . . _rumors _about you, you know—concerning the chamber. . ."

Finally, Harry turned toward him.

"Fine," snapped Harry, "tell me about the Chamber of Secrets."

Draco smiled widely, picked something off his robes, and pursed his lips.

"Not so fast, Potter," he said. "Why should _I _tell you anything?"

"Because we're friends," said Harry.

"Oh, are we? I thought you decided you were too good to have friends."

Harry fumed.

"What do you want, Draco?"

"I think an apology would do nicely."

"What? I'm not the one who left you in the hall to take the blame for Mrs. Norris!"

"We tried to warn you—"

"Fine, whatever, I'm sorry!" snapped Harry. "Now tell me what the Chamber of Secrets is before I _do _learn how to petrify things!"

Draco looked absolutely smug. He threw his arm around Harry's shoulder as if they were already good friends again and started to walk out of the library with him. In a low voice, Draco started to explain what he knew about the Chamber of Secrets.

"After last week, I sent an owl to Father asking about the Chamber, of course. I knew a little already—just a plus of being pureblood—but Father filled me in on the rest. I just got his letter yesterday."

So that was why Draco was so eager to talk to Harry—he just couldn't stand not being able to brag about something no one else knew.

"Hogwarts was created over a thousand years ago by four of the greatest witches and wizards of all time. The four houses are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin."

He glanced over at Harry, to make sure he was listening.

"Apparently the four of them brought together kids who could do magic. But Slytherin thought that they should only teach students from all-magic families. He didn't trust students from Muggle families (who can blame him?), so after arguing with Gryffindor about it, he left the school."

"What does that have to do with the chamber?" said Harry.

"Legend says, Slytherin built a secret chamber without any of the other founders knowing and he sealed it away so that only his heir would be able to open it. When the chamber is opened, a monster will be released that will get rid of all the Mudbloods and Muggle-borns."

"But what does that have to do with me? You said—" Harry didn't need to finish the sentence. The answer suddenly occurred to him. He had been sorted in Slytherin and he was the one who was found in the hall with a petrified Mrs. Norris. "Everyone thinks that I'm Slytherin's heir, don't they?"

"That's the rumor, anyway."

As he spoke, they turned a corner and found themselves at the end of the very corridor where the attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The scene was just as it had been that night, except that there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the message "The Chamber of Secrets has been Opened."

They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted.

"Can't hurt to have a poke around," said Harry, dropping his bag and getting to his hands and knees so that he could crawl along, searching for clues.

"Scorch marks!" he said. "Here—and here—"

"Camo!" Malvora's voice sounded from down the hall. She came around the corner with a panicked expression. "Oh, Draco and. . . Are we talking to Harry again?"

"Yes," said Draco.

"Great! You guys have to help me find Camo! He ran out of the common room and I chased him up here. Have you seen him?"

"No," said Harry, "have you, Draco?"

"I didn't have an eye open for your stupid cat."

"He was following the spiders, see." She pointed to the window next to the message on the wall. On the topmost pane, there were around twenty spiders, scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside."

"Since when do spiders travel in groups?" said Draco.

"Who cares?" snapped Mal. "We've got to find Camo!"

Harry let out a deep breath.

"Well, he can't be far if you were just following him." He walked a few paces past Filch's lookout chair and pointed at a door which was cracked open. "He could be in there."

"Remember all the water that was on the floor before?" said Draco. "It was around that door."

"Let's check it out!" said Mal, pushing past Draco and Harry.

"_We _can't go in there," said Draco, hanging back with Harry.

"Why not?" said Harry.

"It's a girl's toilet," said Draco.

"It's out of order," said Mal, "and Camo might be in there!"

And ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign, she opened the door all the way.

It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges.

Camo sat in front of one of stalls, licking his paw as if he had no idea another cat had been petrified very near here only a few days ago.

"Camo, you naughty kitty," said Mal, walking toward him.

"I'm telling you," whispered Draco to Harry, "that cat is more trouble than he's worth."

"Who's there?" said a voice from one of the stalls.

Moaning Myrtle floated out of one of the stalls, picking a spot on her chin.

"This is a _girl's _bathroom," she said, eyeing Draco and Harry suspiciously. "You're not girls."

"Eugh," said Mal, picking up Camo and slipping past Myrtle, "I forgot that this is Moaning Myrtle's toilet."

"Oh," wailed Myrtle, "forgot all about stupid, insignificant Moaning Myrtle!"

"Myrtle," said Harry as a thought suddenly struck him, "did you see anyone near here when Mrs. Norris was petrified?"

"I wasn't paying attention," said Myrtle dramatically. "Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to _kill _myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I'm—that I'm—"

"Dead," said Draco with a sneer.

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned over, and dived headfirst into a toilet, splashing water all over them and vanishing from sight, although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she had come to rest somewhere in the U-bend.

Harry and Draco stood with their mouths open, but Mal was chasing a wet and agitated Camo out of the bathroom. Draco took a step to follow her, but Harry stopped him.

"Wait, Draco," he said, "do you. . . do you know anything else about the heir of Slytherin?"

Draco looked at him carefully.

"Worried it might actually be you?"

Harry didn't have to say anything to confirm it.

"I don't know who the heir of Slytherin is, if that's what you're asking," said Draco, "but it might be worth looking into your family line."

Harry nodded and, without another word, they left the bathroom after Malvora.


	9. The Rogue Bludger

**Author's Notes: **I just wanted to give a special shoutout to Diana-Shan, PlushChrome, and Raider09, the first three reviewers on the latest chapters. Going back through the reviews I saw that you guys were some of the most dedicated and generous fans of the story we had! It was YOUR reviews that made me want to keep writing the Slytherin Tales. Thanks so much for being so supportive! I don't want to dissapoint you!

That's another reason why it's so important for people to review. A single review can make the difference between whether a story carries on or not. Plus, lately I've had lots of new ideas for the Slytherin Tales and I rely on the readers out there to check them for me. Give me your suggestions, things you like, things you don't, and believe me, it will really make a difference! For example, someone reviewed a while back begging me not to let Harry be with Ginny because she's shallow and just like his mom. Someone else said they wouldn't mind Harry ending up with her again. I've sort of taken both factors into consideration and well... What if Harry ended up with a remodeled Ginny? Not the only-important-to-progress-the-plot-Ginny, but a better developed actual character? Thoughts, opinions?

Anyway, thanks again and please enjoy the next chapter!

(PS, Diana-shan... Flukes is one of my favorites too!)

* * *

Since the disastrous episodes of the pixies, Professor Lockhart had not brought live creatures to class. Instead, he read passages from his books to them, and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic bits. He always wanted harry to help him with these reconstructions; most of the time, Harry was able to feign some sort of excuse, but so far, he had been forced to play a yeti with a head cold and a vampire who had been unable to eat anything except lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with him.

Lockhart tried to haul Harry to the front of the class during their very next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson to act as a werewolf, but Harry flatly refused.

"Oh come on, Harry, be a sport! I want to show the class how, with one hand, I managed to hold the werewolf down and perform the immensely complex Homorphous Charm."

"Sorry, Professor, but no."

They argued for several minutes, back and forth, until the bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet.

"Fine. Homework—compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of _Magical Me _to the author of the best one!"

Mal and Draco waited for Harry to pack his things and headed out of the class with him.

"I'll make a poem about Lockhart," said Mal and then, in a light tone, "Professor Lockhart is one of a kind: a stuffed up pig without a mind. Says he taught a goblin to fly, but I think it's all a lie."

"It has to be about the Wagga Wagga Werewolf," commented Draco.

"Oh, shut up! You ruin all my jokes!" Mal punched Draco playfully in the arm.

"So, Harry," said Draco, ignoring her, "ready for the first match of the season? Us against Gryffindor?"

Harry nodded, but in truth, he hadn't even really thought about the Quidditch match that would take place tomorrow. His mind was on something else. . .

" I say that we go put snakes in the first year dorms during lunch," said Mal.

"Actually," said Harry, "I need to go to the library for something. Go on without me."

"Aw," said Mal, "but Draco's no good at pulling pranks alone with me! He just whines."

Draco looked at Mal as if he wanted to say something very nasty in response to her, but instead, he looked back at Harry with a careful expression.

"What do you need in the library?"

"I'm just doing some research," said Harry.

Draco nodded, knowingly. "Well, we'll see you at lunch, then."

Mal groaned and followed Draco down the hall, bickering with him. Harry watched them for a moment, then continued into the muffled stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable woman who looked like an underfed vulture. She glanced suspiciously at Harry when he came in. It wasn't unusual. Most people glanced suspiciously at Slytherins no matter where they were at.

He went over to the genealogy section when he was sure no one was watching him, and he began looking desperately for anything that might be about his parents. He had no idea where to begin and couldn't help but wonder if there was some better way to go about getting the information he wanted. He searched and searched for the entire lunch period. In fact, he might not have heard the bell at all if it weren't for Madam Pince making a sound over his shoulder and shooing him away.

He left feeling discouraged and frazzled. He was nowhere closer to finding out if he really was the heir of Slytherin. He decided to put it aside for now—after all, there was a Quidditch match tomorrow.

Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking about the coming Quidditch match. He was nervous, mainly at the thought of what Flint would say if Slytherin lost, but also about facing Gryffindor. After a half an hour of lying there with his insides churning, he got up, dressed, and went down to breakfast early, where he found the rest of the Slytherin team huddled at the long, empty table, all looking wide-eyed at something on the table.

Draco was standing at one end of the table looking as tall as the older boys with the way he was standing, chest puffed out, back straight and proud. A bright smile spread over his face when he saw Harry.

"Guess what Father sent to the team," said Draco, hands on his hips. Harry pushed a couple of excited Slytherins out of the way and couldn't stop himself from smiling either when he saw a whole pile of _Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones_ stacked up on the center of the table.

"Your father got these for us?" he said in wonder, grabbing the first broomstick that caught his eye. "This is the latest model!"

"Yes, well, I admit that I may have done a little persuading. . ."

"This is brilliant, Draco!" said Harry. "We'll be sure to crush Gryffindor with these!"

Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain, had never looked less trollish.

"I knew I wouldn't regret putting you on the team, Malfoy."

As eleven o'clock approached, the whole school started to make its way down to the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of thunder in the air. Malvora came hurrying over to wish Harry good luck, as well as to stick her tongue out at Draco as they entered the locker rooms. The team pulled on their green Slytherin robes, then sat down to listen to Flint's usual threats.

"We've got better brooms than Gryffindor," he began, "so I want you all to show off your speed. Don't make any dumb mistakes either, got it? If you screw this up, I'll find a new team. So go on, get out there and win, or else, got it?"

As they walked out onto the pitch, a roar of noise greeted them; mainly boos, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Gryffindor win, but the Slytherins in the crowd were almost making enough cheer to drown out the booing.—and an excited murmur broke out when they started to notice the new brooms.

The crowd weren't the only ones to notice—Gryffindor captain Oliver Wood suddenly paled when he saw the broomsticks gleaming in the sunlight. Madam Hooch, the Quidditch teacher, asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which they did, Flint baring teeth in his grin and Wood barely moving his hand at all.

"On my whistle," said Madam Hooch. "Three. . . two. . . one. . ."

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky. Harry flew higher than any of them, squinting around for the Snitch.

"Keep your eyes open, Potter," yelled Draco, shooting underneath him and showing off the speed of his broom to the Gryffindors.

Harry had no time to reply. At that very moment, a heavy black Bludger came pelting toward him; he avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as it passed.

"Pay attention!" said Adrian Pucey, streaking past him with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward a Gryffindor. Harry saw him give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of George Weasley, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again.

Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and Adrian managed to hit it hard toward Ophelia Hart. Once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harry's head.

Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the pitch. He could hear the Bludger whistling along behind him. What was going on? Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible. . . .

Morag was waiting for the Bludger at the other end. Harry ducked as he swung at the Bludger with all his might; the Bludger was knocked off course.

As though it was magnetically attracted to harry, the Bludger pelted after him once more and Harry was forced to fly off at full speed.

It had started to rain; Harry felt heavy drops fall onto his face, splattering onto his glasses. He didn't have a clue what was going on in the rest of the game until he heard Lee Jordan, who was commentating, say, "Slyterhin lead, sixty points to zero—"

The Slytherin's superior brooms were clearly doing their jobs, and meanwhile the mad Bludger was doing all it could to knock Harry out of the air.

Harry knew that someone had to making the Bludger behave like this. He waved his hands at Flint to signal a time out.

"This better be good," snapped Flint as the Slytherin team huddled together. "We're on a winning streak, here."

"It's one of the Bludgers," said Harry. "It's been fixed to follow me."

"It must be the Gryffindors," spat Draco.

Madam Hooch was walking toward them. Over her shoulder, Harry could see the Gryffindor team jeering and pointing in his direction.

"Listen," said Harry, suddenly changing his mind "let's keep playing. I'll deal with the rogue ball."

"But if we can prove that Gryffindor fixed the ball," said Draco," then they'll have to forfeit. We'll win."

"They'll just think that we got off easy," said Harry. "But if we finish flattening them, they won't have an excuse. It'll prove that we're the better team."

"I like your thinking, Potter," said Flint, grinning.

Madam Hooch had joined them.

"Ready to resume play?" she asked Flint.

Flint nodded with an expression of determination.

The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam Hooch's whistle, harry kicked hard into the air and heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind him. Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open, rain was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the Bludger. He could hear the laughter from the crowd; he knew he must look very stupid, but the rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn't change direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the Gryffindor goal posts, where Pucey was trying to get past Wood—

A whistling in Harry's ear told him the Bludger had just missed him again; he turned right over and sped in the opposite direction.

That's when he saw it—_the Golden Snitch_. It was hovering inches above Ophelia Hart's (Gryffindor seeker) ear.

Through a haze of rain he dived toward Ophelia, whose eyes widened in surprise: she thought Harry was attacking her.

She careened out of Harry's way as Harry took his hand off his broom and made a wild snatch; he felt the cold Snitch on his fingertips but then—WHAM. The Bludger grazed his back and drove him forward so that he pushed the Golden Snitch directly into Ophelia Hart's open hand. In a moment of desperation, he lunged forward with both hands, as if to yank the Snitch away from her, but again the Bludger whistled toward him and this time he didn't have time to react. He ducked, lost his balance, and fell from his broom.

There was a chorus of screaming and gasps as he plummeted to the ground. With a splattering thud he hit the mud, landing on his arm. He felt it break from the impact. He hardly felt the pain, however; all he could think about was how he'd pushed the Snitch right into Hart's hand.

"We've lost," he said vaguely.

And he fainted.

He came around, rain falling on his face, still lying on the field, with someone leaning over him. He saw a glitter of teeth.

"Oh, no, not you," he moaned.

"Doesn't know what he's saying," said Lockhart loudly to the anxious crowd of people pressing around them. "Not to worry, Harry. I'm about to fix your arm."

"_No!_" said Harry. "I'll die before I let you—"

He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard a familiar clicking noise nearby.

"Get out of here, Creevey!" he said loudly.

"Lie back, Harry," said Lockhart soothingly. "It's a simple charm I've used countless times—"

"No, I'll just go to the hospital wing!' said Harry through clenched teeth.

Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted the Weasley twins wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight.

"Stand back," said Lockhart, who was rolling up his jade-green sleeves.

"I said no!" snapped Harry, weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had directed it straight at Harry's arm.

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry's shoulder and spread all the way down to his fingertips. It felt as though his arm was being deflated. He didn't dare look at what was happening. He had shut his eyes, his face turned away from his arm, but his worst fears were realized as the people above him gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking away madly. His arm didn't hurt anymore—nor did it feel remotely like an arm.

"Ah," said Lockhart. "Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That's the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the hospital wing—ah, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Melbarke, would you escort him?—and Madam Pomfrey will be able to—er—tidy you up a bit."

As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath he looked down at his right side. What he saw nearly made him pass out again.

Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick, flesh-colored rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened.

Lockhart hadn't mended Harry's bones. He had removed them.

Madam Pomfrey wasn't at all pleased.

"You should have come straight to me!" she raged, holding up the sad, limp reminder of what, half an hour before, had been a working arm. "I can mend bones in a second—but growing them back—"

"You will be able to, won't you?' said Harry desperately.

"I'll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful," said Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing Harry a pair of pajamas. "You'll have to stay the night."

Mal waited outside the curtain drawn around Harry while Draco helped him into his pajamas. It took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm into a sleeve.

"I'll get Lockhart back for this, just you wait," said Mal. "I'll slip leeches into his bathwater, burn all the pictures in his office, turn him into a whale—"

"Father will make sure he's sacked," said Draco. "It's just like Dumbledore to hire incompetent teachers."

"How mad is Flint?" said harry, getting into bed.

"He thinks we should win by default because Gryffindor fixed the Bludger. He's been arguing in Snape's office about it for hours."

As Harry swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped pointlessly.

Mal and Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain. Madam Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of something labeled _Skele-Gro_.

"You're in for a rough night," she said, pouring out a steaming beakerful and handing it to him. "Regrowing bones is a nasty business."

So he was taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Harry's mouth and throat as it went down, making him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Mal and Draco to watch Harry gulp down some water.

"No one's happy we lost," said Draco, frowning. "Some of the team says that you practically _gave_ Hart the Snitch. You should have seen the look on her face when the game was over." A look of disgust crossed his face.

"I'm not happy about it either," said Harry in a bitter voice. If it hadn't been for that Bludger, he would have caught the Snitch. It was going to be hard to make Flint happy after this.

"Hey," said Malvora, suddenly, "I've got something for you, Harry." She opened her bag and pulled out handfuls of sweets that she tossed on the bed, followed by smuggled pumpkin juice bottles. "Stole them from the Gryffindor afterparty. I thought you could use the pick-me-up."

Draco reached for a chocolate and Mal smacked his hand.

"Oy, those are for Harry!"

"He doesn't need all of them!" snapped Draco, reaching again.

"He's in agony! What's your excuse?" she pushed him.

"My excuse?" Draco swatted her hand away, " I _want _a chocolate."

Before Harry could yell at them to keep their fight away from his arm, Madam Pomfrey came storming over, shouting, "This boy needs rest, he's got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! OUT!"

And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him from the stabbing pain in his limp arm.

Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly in the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His arm now felt full of large splinters. For a second, he thought that was what had woken him. Then, with a thrill of horror, he realized that someone was sponging his forehead in the dark.

"Get off!" he said loudly, and then, "_Dobby!_"

The house-elf's goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.

"Harry Potter came back to school," he whispered miserably. "Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?"

Harry heaved himself up on his pillows and pushed Dobby's sponge away.

"What're you doing here?" he said. "And how did you know I missed the train?"

Dobby's lip trembled and Harry was seized by a sudden suspicion.

"It was _you!_" he said slowly. "_You_ stopped the barrier from letting us through!"

"Indeed yes, sir," said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously, ears flapping. "Dobby hid and watched for Harry Potter and sealed the gateway because Dobby's master told him to. Dobby thought Harry Potter was safe, and _never _did Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school another way! Dobby had to iron his hands afterward"—he showed Harry ten long, bandaged fingers.

He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his ugly head.

"Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir. . . ."

Harry had the sudden desire to flog Dobby himself.

"You nearly got Mal and me expelled," he said fiercely. "You'd better get lost before my bones come back, Dobby, or I'll strangle you."

Dobby smiled weakly.

"Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them five times a day at home."

"I don't care about what you get at home," said Harry," I just want you to leave me alone!"

Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, "Harry Potter _must _go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make—"

"_Your_ Bludger?" said Harry, lunging at Dobby but then pulling back when pain shot through his arm. "What d'you mean, _your _Bludger? _You_ made that Bludger try and kill me?"

"Not to kill you, sir, never kill you!" said Dobby, shocked. "Dobby wants to save Harry Potter's life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!"

"Oh, is that all?" said Harry angrily. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me _why_ you wanted me sent home in pieces?"

"Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!" Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. "If he knew what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We house-elfs were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir," he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase, "But mostly, sir, life had improved for my kind since you triumphed over the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, sir. . . . And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, and perhaps happening already, and Dobby has been told that Harry Potter must not stay here now that history is about to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more—"

Dobby froze, horrorstruck, then grabbed Harry's water jug from his bedside table and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight. A second later, he crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering, "Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby. . ."

"So there _is _a Chamber of Secrets?" Harry whispered. "And—did you say it's been opened _before_? _Tell_ me, Dobby!"

He seized the elf's bony wrist as Dobby's hand inched toward the water jug.

"Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby," stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. "Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter must not be here when they happen—go home, Harry Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, he must not—"

"Who is it?" Harry said, keeping a firm hold on Dobby's wrist. "Who's opened it? Who opened it last time?"

"Dobby can't, sir, Dobby can't, Dobby mustn't tell!" squealed the elf. "Go home, Harry Potter, go home!"

"I'm not going anywhere!" said Harry fiercely. "I don't care what you, or your master has to say about it! And if you try something like that Bludger trick again, I'll feed you to the monsters in the lake!"

"Harry Potter must leave, he must—"

Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside.

"Dobby must go!" breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud crack, and Harry's fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. He slumped back into bed, his eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew nearer.

Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed.

"Get Madam Pomfrey," whispered Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry's bed and out of sight. Harry lay quite still, pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress. He heard a sharp intake of breath.

"What happened?" Madam Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the bed.

"Another attack," said Dumbledore. "Minerva found him on the stairs."

"There was a bunch of grapes next to him," said Professor McGonagall. "We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter."

"Harry's stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and carefully, he raised himself a few inches so he could look at the statue on the bed. A ray of moonlight lay across its staring face.

It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were wide and his hands were stuck up in front of him, holding his camera.

"Petrified?" whispered Madam Pomfrey.

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "But I shudder to think. . . If Albus hadn't been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate—who knows what might have—"

The three of them stared down at Creevey. Then Dumbledore leaned forward and wrenched the camera out of Colin's rigid grip.

"You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?" said Professor McGonagall eagerly.

Dumbledore didn't answer. He opened the back of the camera.

"Good gracious!" said Madam Pomfrey.

A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. Harry, three beds away, caught the acrid smell of burnt plastic.

"Melted," said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. "All melted. . ."

"What does this _mean_, Albus?" Professor McGonagall asked urgently.

"It means," said Dumbledore, "that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again."

Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore.

"But, Albus. . . surely. . . _who_?"

"The question is not _who_," said Dumbledore, his eyes on Colin. "The question is, _how_. . . ."

And from what Harry could see of Professor McGonagall's shadowy face, she didn't understand this any better than he did.


End file.
